Two Halves of the Same Whole
by The Necessity of Darkness
Summary: Sherlock never expected to live a long life. Or a happy one, truth be told. Soulmates couldn't be as great as they said; they just couldn't. Especially if you never found yours. (Eventual Johnlock, slight Mystrade, soulmate AU)
1. Blue Name, Red Thread

**A/N: This is a soulmate AU, which includes, but is not limited to, eventual Johnlock, eventual slight Mystrade(I don't even ship them, but I couldn't _not_ ), drug use in later chapters, some slight cursing, etc.**

* * *

Suddenly, I hear a noise, soft and faint, somewhere far off but right beside both my ears. It sounds sort of like a wind chime blowing gently in the afternoon breeze, like the one we have outside our house. At first, I want the noise as far away from my thoughts as possible, but it's difficult to delete a noise so close to your ears and so pertinent to your life.

I already know what the sound is, knew from the moment it sounded in the air, but just because I wanted to hear it then doesn't mean I want to hear it now. Just because I know what it means, or because I feel the swell of interest in my gut, doesn't mean I have to acknowledge it.

So I don't.

I don't glance eagerly down at my wrist to see the arrival of a name, written in colored ink: a color that I can't see, mind you.

I just sit on my gray bed, staring at my gray notebook, in my gray bedroom, looking at the gray window panes, then at the gray cement, and the gray puddles on it, formed by the gray droplets of rain that are falling from the gray sky.

I look to my gray mirror, tilt my gray head, and wonder when all the gray will forever leave my eyes.

* * *

I won't glance at the colored label, but I still can't help but recall a time when I was fascinated with the very prospect of soulmates.

Mummy would always tell me of how, when you saw your soulmate, you'd just know that it was them. I'd asked how you could just know by a glance that you and someone else were meant to be, and you'd immediately see the colors, but she said it wasn't nearly as simple as it sounded.

You really don't know your soulmate by a glance. It isn't like in fictional movies where the characters see each other for the first time, and then there are heated kisses and confessions of "I love you"' formed by their lips, like the films I saw as a mere child. It's more like, when you first talk to them, there's supposed to be a spark you've never felt before. Something pulling you to your counterpart. And then, no matter how small the increments, you see color for the first time. That's how you know they're _The One_.

I suppose the immediate attraction between two soul mates is helpful, considering the fact that there are many Marys and Johns and Michaels and Lisas in the world, and the colors don't always come right away to confirm your relationship.

I used to always ask Mummy if there was someone out there for me, someone who would love me unconditionally and not hate all of my supposed quirks and icy comments. She had always said that there had always been someone who loved me, and who would always love me, unconditionally.

I hadn't know then that she meant family.

* * *

Despite my best efforts to try and ward off my curiosity, I find myself desperately wanting to pull up my sleeve and examine my name. _The name_. The one I will most likely be attached to for the whole of my life.

Unless one of us dies, that is.

I've researched plenty about how deaths affect a soulmate. The wrist of the counterpart left alive will have its name wiped away, erased forever, like they had never even known they had a soulmate, let alone spent most of their life with them. Also, all colors will be reverted back to dull shades of gray. Usually, a person whose soulmate has recently died will fall into a mass depression, and suicide is usually imminent.

I keep thinking my soulmate might be in danger, like they might die and I'll never even meet them, let alone know who they were.

I would just know their name, the lone, colored title branded on the underneath of my wrist, and I wouldn't even have seen the color of my marking. Then, I would never know if someone was able to deal with my alleged idiosyncrasies, like I had asked Mummy doubtfully, so many times.

I suddenly find myself hoping that my counterpart, whatever their name is, wherever they may be, is safe.

* * *

Finally, I find my patience has worn thin as I idly spin my fork on my plate, twirling spaghetti around its tines. I haven't told my parents that I've received the mark, and they wouldn't know, considering only the recipient of the marking can hear the characteristic chime, and every person receives their mark at different times in their life.

Frankly, although I hate to admit to a weakness, I'm scared to tell anyone about my soulmate.

After all, I haven't even seen their name myself. I don't know what gender they are, or where they live, or what they're doing, or if they're tall, smart, friendly, loyal: _anything_!

There are so many things I don't know about my partner, and I find myself wishing I could deduce a person without even seeing them.

* * *

The niggling in my skull suddenly becomes unbearable, and I find myself wrenching my left sleeve down. Before I can glimpse my arm, though, I close my eyes, allowing my fingernails to skim over the sensitive flesh of my wrist. _This is where it is_. _This is where my soulmate's name lies_...

I count to five, and then my eyes are blown wide, adjusting to the change of light. My eyes are unfocused at first, but I can see that the writing is a deep shade of gray, contrasting immensely against my almost-white skin. Then, my vision focuses, and I see it, the name, branded on my skin in spidery print...

 _John_...

Suddenly, I feel vaguely crestfallen: John is such an ordinary name. So common, in fact, that I've met precisely 17 Johns within my 14 years of existence. And then, my despondency boils into anger at how utterly unfair it is. _Why do I have to have such a dull, boring, common, unextraordinary name printed on my wrist_?!

I suppose all I can hope for now is that his personality isn't as dull as his title.

But then, I remember that my name isn't really Sherlock, and William is probably just as common as John.

My anger subsides dramatically at the thought.

* * *

I remember I used to always converse with Mycroft about soulmate markings, and I'd always be sure to ask if he finally got his. That was when I cared significantly about finding my "Other Half", and now, I haven't even bothered to remember his partner's name. Abruptly, I realize I'm curious about his soulmate, even though I seem to have deleted their mention from my Mind Palace. I guess, now that I know I have a soulmate, and I'm not one of those few, shunned upon outcasts who don't have a marking, I've reinvested myself in the world of soulmates.

" _Fatcroft_!" I shout, my voice ringing throughout our home. I wait a few minutes, anticipating for him to forcefully wrench open his door and cooly, calmly talk down to me in that condescending tone of his, but it doesn't come. I wait even longer, but then I realize suddenly that my call has fallen upon deaf ears.

 _Mycroft isn't here anymore_ : _he's away at college_.

But I'm not deterred so easily.

* * *

"Mummy?" I call, canting my head left and right, scouring our backyard garden. Then, I spot her by a bunch of marigolds, and I start towards her kneeled position as she beckons me over with a wave of her hand. I've never understood her like for gardening as a suitable past time: seems rather dull, to me. _Maybe the colors are attractive to her, since she can see them_?

"Yes, dear?" she asks, and I unconsciously bristle at the implication of the pet name. Brushing off the term of endearment, I settle on the soil beside her trowel and shovel, watching her tend to the bright gray flowers.

"What did Mycroft's soulmate marking say?" I ask inquisitively, subconsciously leaning in to hear her response.

"Oh," she smiles, moving her hands to tend to the next flower. "It said Gregory, dear," she finishes simply, not turning to glance at me. Well, I suppose my parents are okay with my soulmate being male, then, if Mycroft's is. That's good, I assume.

"What color was it?" I continue, shifting slightly to avoid crumbles of dirt, deciding to ignore her use of the nickname 'dear', again.

"Hmmm...it was forest green, I believe, like the color of the needles of a spruce tree. Quite pretty," she ends offhandedly, tilting the water pitcher in her hands for the liquid to cascade over the flower's petals. I suppose looking at the things in a garden wouldn't be too bad, that is, if mother isn't exaggerating about all the variant colors of flowers.

"Speaking of markings," she continues, finally turning towards me. I already know what she's going to say: how _predictable_. "Have you gotten _your_ name, yet?"

I debate on whether to tell her the truth or not, but I suspect she'll know that I'm lying: she _has_ been around me my entire life. Before I even open my mouth to respond, she gives me a stern look, and says,"And you better not lie to me, _William_." First name; she's serious.

I sigh heavily, conceding,"Uhh...yes..."

And she beams at me, her teeth nearly completely white compared to the black of her hair.

"Ah: let me see it!" she exclaims, reaching out and wrenching my hand towards her face. She inspects it for a moment, face slightly amused, yet...soft(?). "Oh, guess we won't be getting any grandchildren from you boys, huh?"

I realize suddenly that her seeing the mark isn't so bad. "What color is it?" I blurt out, pulling my hand back to my side and smoothing my palm over the name. _John_...

"Ah, well," she starts, eyeing the marking with a small smile,"it's one of the most lovely shades of blue I've ever seen..." And she must see the mixture of wonder and confusion on my face as she gives an understanding smile and continues. "I think everything I've ever seen that's blue has always been pretty. The ocean, flowers, the sky, rain, your eyes..."

I remember when I'd asked her how I looked when I was young. She seemed contemplative for a moment before telling me about my curly, raven hair, my pale skin, my blue eyes. She had emphasized my eyes very much in the description, saying they were the most interesting thing about my face. How they changed in every lighting: sometimes green, others blue, then teal, maybe gray, often a blend of exotic hues she couldn't call just one specific color.

"Why, that scarf you always wear is blue," she admits, gesturing to the scarf around my neck. I glance down at it for a moment just to see a rich hue of gray wrapped around my neck. No blue, just gray, and suddenly I'm aggitated at the fact that colors simply can't be described. You can say that the ocean is blue, but what is blue? How do you describe blue to someone like me, who's never seen anything other then black, gray, and white?

"Yes, Mummy," I respond, fidgeting with the, supposedly blue, fabric constricting my neck. "But what is blue like? Describe it to me," I demand, shifting to sit on my haunches.

Her smile falters.

"Well, it's hard to describe it, Sherlock. I could tell you that blue feels cool and soothing, like ice, or that it's relaxing and nonconforming, like waves, or that it's crisp and cool, like blueberries. Or I could tell you it's depressing, correlated with tears, or it's soothing and soft, like a breeze. But I know you'd particularly loathe those answers, so I'm afraid I can't answer your question. There are no scientific facts or adjectives I could use to describe any color, and when you first see blue, you'll know exactly what I mean."

She's right; I _do_ like factual information. It's safe and understandable, but obviously colors _aren't_ considered safe and understandable. If Mother could explain blue to me scientifically, she would.

I sit silently for a moment, examining the gray flowers and wondering all about colors: _what color are the flowers, what color are Mummy's eyes, what does green look like, and blue, and every other color I've yet to know about_? And then, I wonder about John. The color on your wrist is supposed to be the first color you see, so I can't help but wondering what the first blue thing I see will be.

"What do you think I'll first see that's blue?" I query, leaning forward to pick at one of the marigold's petals. I rub it between my thumb and forefinger, waiting as my mother hums thoughtfully.

"I can't be sure, dear, but it could be anything. When you first see blue, all the blue in the world won't just appear all at once: it will appear slowly, gradually, in increments. So many things are blue that you could see the sky, first. Or a building, a sign. Maybe a shirt. It could be anything, at any time, and I know it's frustrating for you not to have a definite answer, and I'm sorry I can't give you one."

She's right again; I _am_ frustrated. I want to know everything, and I know it isn't possible, but that doesn't mean it doesn't anger me.

I rise from the ground, sparing a glance at the garden and Mummy before I leave. I see my mother smile, something in her eyes I can't quite place, and, as we've already established, I don't like not knowing.

* * *

Hmmm, it's curious, the predicament I'm in, looking up soulmates on my laptop when the last time I've done that was when I was 7. I just can't seem to get John out of my head, now that his name is branded on my wrist in this peculiar "blue" color. I was tempted to give up this whole soulmate nonsense before, after I thought I was never going to get one, but now that I've found that I, indeed, have one, I can't get my Mind Palace in order. It's rather frustrating.

I see an old Chinese proverb quote on an image, so I enlarge the photo and read:

" _An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break_."

I suddenly wonder what it'd be like if I always had a red thread wrapped around my hand that stretched to wrap around my pinky, which was connected to John's. I find that it's difficult to imagine the whole situation: I don't know what red looks like, I don't know what John looks like, and it seems unlikely you could ever be born with a thread around your finger.

I wish there was a red thread though; at least I'd be able to see the color. I wonder...

 _What's red like_...?

* * *

 **A/N: Any feedback is much appreciated.**


	2. Don't Let Them Know

**A/N: Thanks to IAmAJohnlockAddict, Qoheleth, Beatlemaniac45, and ChuYumeAkirameru for reviewing Chapter 1. Also, thank you to everyone who followed and favorited my story.**

* * *

" _Mum_!" I frantically cry, and then she's right in front of me, a concerned glint in her soft eyes.

"What is it, Johnny?!" she shouts, a hint of anxiety trapped in her voice.

"Wh-where is my cuff? For my wrist? Where...is it?" I stutter, trying desperately to calm my shaky breaths.

"Harry took it a while back, said she'd return it in a bit. Why: what is it, dear?" she responds, gripping my shoulders with her slender fingers. I can feel her rings digging into my skin uncomfortably, and I grip her hands to tug them off.

I don't respond for a moment, too caught up in my anger and the commotion and all the mixed emotions I'm feeling right now. Yet my mother seems to understand, anyway, and she stares at me knowingly.

"John?" she says firmly, now taking my face in her palms, ignoring my slight flinch away. "Did you get your marking?" she asks, and I can't help but think it's a dumb question _: she already knows that's what's happened_. I suppose she's asking just for clarification.

I nod my head subconsciously, my mouth curling into a grimace. Mum notices my distress, I guess, because she strokes the side of my face comfortingly.

"What's wrong, John? Let me see it, please?" she pleads, and even though I don't want to, not even in the slightest, I stretch out my arm, allowing her the chance to roll my sleeve up.

Her fingers brush tentatively at the flesh of my wrist, and I nod for her to continue, seeing the clear expression of hesitancy on her face. Suddenly, she forces my right sleeve up, and she stares at it for a moment. Then, I see confusion blur with the look of amazement.

"W-why are you trying t-to cover this, honey? You should be pr-roud to have a marking...," Mum drawls, and she glances up to my face with her pleading eyes, and I can't help but wince. _She won't understand now_ , _never will, but I'll try telling her anyway_.

"I don't w-want to be made fun of, M-mum!" I shout, and she looks taken aback. "They've always made fun of me! They call me gay, and they said I'll end up like Harry, with a soulmate of the same sex, and now they're right! I'm-I'm gay, just like they said: like they _say_... _Please_ , don't make me show it...don't let them know that I'm like _her_...," I whimper, and she suddenly looks so tired: so _undone_.

"Oh, honey...," she sighs apologetically, and suddenly her arms are wound around me, filling me with warmth despite the tears I can feel clinging to my eyelashes. I'm not sure how long we embrace, but it feels like her arms are gone far too quickly.

"Oh, John, don't listen to what anyone else says...having a soulmate is a wonderful thing, no matter what the person's name or gender. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're bad because of your soulmate...Who cares what anyone else thinks? You'll always be my little boy, and me and your father will always love you," Mum reassures, and I can do nothing else but smile at her words, even if I don't believe any of them.

" _Please_ , _Mum_...," I smile through the tears, and suddenly, she gives up. I see her face drain of any fight at the whining tone of my voice, and, I admit, I don't like the way it sounds much either.

"John...you shouldn't be ashamed. I'm sure William is lovely..."

I flinch, and she clasps her hand over her mouth, realizing what she's said.

"Oh, honey...," she sighs with a pain in her eyes that makes me want to just...hug her. "I just...I wish you'd accept that you can't change your fate. You're bound to this... _person_ , and there's nothing you can do but make the best of your fate."

She rushes me, wrapping her arms around my torso and shoving her head in the crook of my neck. I freeze momentarily, contemplating what she's just said, but I don't know how to continue. It was so easy to just deny that I was gay, but I can't deny it anymore, not with... _William's_...name as proof.

Mum pulls away, and despite her trying to swipe them away discretely, I see the tears beading in the corners of her eyes. I reach my hand out, drag my thumb over her eyes, and I see a small smile tug at her lips.

"You know what?" I announce, pulling away from her. "Forget about the cuff. I'll just...I won't cover it up...," I admit, and my mum looks at me softly.

"That's good, John...," she sighs in what sounds like content. "Just...don't let their ridicule get to you. Not everyone is so cruel."

I give her a smile; not a pained one, or a crooked one, but a genuine one. It's small, and my muscles twitch at the stretch of my lips when I feel so drained of energy, but it's real, and I actually feel reassured.

"Oh, and Mum?" I call behind her retreating form. She turns her head around and quirks an eyebrow at me before walking closer.

"Yes, Johnny; what is it?"

"Um, well, I just wanted to ask...," I mumble as I scratch the back of my head,"what color is it?"

She smiles gently at me, and I wish I could see the color of her eyes, her hair, her skin, her clothes: see all the colors she's described to me.

"Well, I'd say...aubergine...it's a deep, rich, beautiful purple," she explains, and I can only imagine what the sight will look like.

"Thanks, Mum," I smile.

She smiles back.

"Well, I, um, should get to, ah, school," I murmur, and she nods her head with a melancholy look in her eyes as I continue,"I won't wear the cuff, but, um, can I wear long sleeves?"

"Of course, dear," she comfirms, and her hands are back on my face as she kisses my temple. "All I ask is that you don't let them get to you. Be proud of who you are because you are a beautiful person. Your soulmate is a beautiful person, too. Always remember that, John."

Her small hands move away, the warmth of her palms dispersing as she walks away and waves goodbye. I wave, as well, then I rush down the hall, into my bedroom, and retrieve my back pack from where it lies on my bed. Grabbing my mobile, I stuff it in my pocket and jog to the front door.

As I twist the door knob, I look down to my wrist, see William scratched into my arm, and I roll up my sleeve, for all to see.

Because I should be proud. Because William, where ever he is, whoever he is, is beautiful, and I should be proud of him.

Because he's my _soulmate_.

* * *

"What's the writing say?!"

"Come on; let's see it!"

"It's none of _your_ business!" I grate out, my face contorting in anger, although I feel a seed of fear blooming in my gut. When I had walked out of my house this morning, my marking had been displayed proudly, but I tug my sleeve down now as Carver and Derek try and see it.

"Oh, defensive much, Watson? What've you got to hide?" Carver retorts snidely, an ugly grin on his smug face.

"Yeah, Johnny: why're you hiding it?" Derek adds, and now my books are splayed on the concrete below. He stomps on my binder and wrenches my book bag off my back as Carver tries shoving me to the ground. I resist him, gripping his arms in mine and holding him back.

"John _Faggot_ Watson! Heh: has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" he laughs, and I want to punch him so badly, but I don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was able to make me angry enough to hit him. Then, Derek puts me in a headlock from behind and hauls me away from Carver.

I feel Carver's fist pounding into my stomach and the ache that accompanies it, and my breath hitches as I try desperately to wriggle out of Derek's grasp, but he holds me firmly. I feel his breath against my neck, and I can't help but shiver.

"How's it feel, Johnny, to know you're a _fag_?" I hear Derek breath into my ear, and suddenly, I want to cry.

"Get off of me! You have _no_ _right_!" I growl loudly, but neither of them listen as Carver moves his hand away from my stomach and targets my head. I see his fist inches away from my eyes, and then I feel it collide with my face, and I whimper in pain. I try to bite my whimper back because I don't want him to know that he's hurting me, but I just _can't_.

I can hear both of them laughing in my ear, then I feel my sleeve being tugged up forcefully.

"Ah, I'm hurt, Johnny: you _lied_ to us! You said you weren't gay, all this time, but we knew better! We knew you were lying when you said you were straight! Well, you can't lie now with William on your wrist, can you?" Carver yells, inching closer and closer to my face.

"Look at how Faggot Watson is wincing, Derek!"

Then, I glance down to Carver's wrist, and I see an opportunity.

"You're...one to talk, Carver...having a soulmate named _Justin_ ," I whisper, and I know he hears me. His face freezes, and Derek's arms have gone limp at my comment, so I take my chance and pull away as quickly as I can. I wince as I try running away, leaving my bag and school supplies sprawled on the sidewalk. The last thing I see as I limp away is Derek walking away from Carver, who is desperately trying to make excuses.

And then, I see Carver start to cry.

* * *

At first, when I realized my soulmate was male, I was _terrified_. I've already been ridiculed and bullied most of my school life for saying I liked boys more than girls. But I wasn't saying it like _that_ : I meant that boys were more relatable, that they made better friends. But, from then on, they've always called me gay. Now, _William_ , he's going to make my life worse than it already is. His name alone has already gotten me beaten up by Derek and Carver, so I can only imagine what'll happen when I finally meet him.

I should probably hate 'William' for making my life worse, but I can't hate him when I don't even know him yet. And even though Carver and Derek act like it's bad for your soulmate to be of the same sex, I know it isn't, and I've never thought it is. I'm just scared, is all: scared of being with a guy in _that_ way.

Instead of hating William, I find myself fascinated with him, albeit I've never even seen him. I wonder what I'll first see that's this 'aubergine' color, and what he'll look like, what he'll sound like, how he'll act, if he'll like me. I'm sort of infautuated with him, I suppose.

I just endlessly wonder when I'll finally get to meet him.

* * *

 **A/N: Any feedback is much appreciated.**


	3. Talk Over Tea

**A/N: Thanks to anyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed! So, I was wondering if any of you could help me out. I need someone to give me an idea of a menial job that Sherlock could do(part of the story coming up). It could be a barista, a clerk, anything like that. Thanks in advance(you can pm me or review)!**

* * *

"Hmmm...decent layout. Mantle; good place for a skull. Practical chair, facing the window, but in the middle of the flat; _perfect_ for violin playing. Good fridge; enough capacity for multiple experiments...Well, I believe I'll take it, Mrs. Hudson!" I exclaim, turning to see her smiling face.

"That's wonderful, Sherlock," she says, walking up to my side and patting me on the shoulder. "Come on, dear," she beckons(as I twitch at the nickname),"I've got some biscuits for you in the kitchen."

"Grand. Just _grand_ , Mrs. Hudson," I compliment, and although it's a bit of a hyperbole, I do think the flat and the biscuits are both fairly decent; just maybe not grand.

We both saunter into the kitchen and she slides a plate of biscuits onto the dining table before she goes to turn on the kettle. I smile politely at her before I take one in my hand, popping it promptly into my dry mouth. Guess I haven't had many beverages today, but I'm not sure I've even had anything to drink at all.

Suddenly, I'm genuinely glad Mrs. Hudson is taking the time to make me tea.

"How've you been, Sherlock? You haven't called me in _ages_! You need to use your phone more," she babbles, glancing to the boiling kettle, then going to retrieve the container of sugar and loose tea from the pantry.

I wince slightly as I respond,"The flow of cases has been... _sparse_..." She exits the closet, jar of sugar and tea in hand as she glances curiously at me.

"How so, dear?" she asks, going back to watching and tending the boiling water. I huff, what I hope can pass as good naturedly, at the use of the nickname.

"Well...," I hesitate, wondering if I should speak truthfully or not. But I remember how Mrs. Hudson has always been there for me, and I decide she is worthy of knowing the whole, absolute truth. I sigh longly, continuing,"Lestrade isn't letting me in on cases, currently."

She frowns deeply as she turns back around to face me. Her mouth opens a bit, and her expression seems confused, but then her eyes widen the tiniest bit. Suddenly, I can see the full disapproval in the thin line of her lips, and deep down, the look doesn't make me feel good.

"Oh, Sherlock...," she drawls, and I know she knows. It feels bad to disappoint her; _I_ feel bad to disappoint her.

She rushes to me, placing her frail hands on my shoulders as she looks sternly at me.

"Why'd you do it, Sherlock?" she questions, practically whimpers, and I don't have a logical answer for her. I didn't want to, and I still don't want to; I don't think I've ever wanted to.

"I...I...," I stutter, and it probably seems weird to her, maybe even troubling, that I'm acting so meek, stuttering so nervously. I take in a shaky breath, exhale, inhale again. In, out, in, out," _I don't know_...," I finally grate out, and I thought the confession might make me feel better, but I just feel worse.

Mrs. Hudson looks sorrowfully down at me, and I know she's just trying to comfort me by wrapping me in a hug, but her arms aren't welcome right now. I try pushing her off, my arms feeling limp, more like noodles than appendages.

"Mrs. Hudson," I chide irritably, pushing with more force this time. She seems to take the hint as she backs off, giving me some space to rise from my chair.

My chair scratches, shrill and loud against the tiled floor. I stare down at her, her soft eyes looking at me with so much despair. The only thing I can hear is the constant sound of blowing steam, billowing and rising from the kettle's spout. It's making me uneasy.

"I'd like to see my new bedroom, now, if you don't mind," I murmur. She seems reluctant to say or do anything, but she nods eventually, ambling back to the kettle.

"Let me get you a cuppa, first, dear," she replies, and I find I'm feeling too... _something_ to care about the term of endearment right now. I nod faintly, slowly falling back down onto my chair.

Almost immediately, I hear the loud, characteristic whistle of the kettle, and Mrs. Hudson hums as she opens the fridge to scour for milk. I merely remain seated as she pulls out the carton and sits it on the counter, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.

"Ah, Sherlock...you need to take better care of yourself," she mutters sadly. "Have you at least been sleeping better?" she continues, spooning the loose tea into the pair of mugs.

"No...haven't been too tired," I respond, tapping my fingers impatiently against the table. I really just want to be alone, where it's safe, with myself, the only person I know, for sure, that I can trust. I wish Mrs. Hudson would move faster.

She tisks slightly as she pours some milk into the bottom of the mugs, then places it on the counter before reaching for the kettle. "You need to rest more, dear," she scolds gently, waving an accusing finger at me. She dumps two spoonfuls of sugar into each cup before stirring both of them thoroughly. "I wish someone could be here all the time to tell you that."

Mrs. Hudson strides over to where I'm sitting, placing one mug of tea gently beside my right hand. The steam wafts up from the cup, ghosting over my face as I smile at her. People have told me I have two kinds of smiles: ones that meet my eyes, and others that almost do. This is one of the real ones, where my eyes crinkle at the corners.

I don't thank her because she already knows I'm grateful. I don't even ask if I can leave for my new bedroom; she just nods slowly at me, taking her own mug as she walks into the living room, then ventures down the stairs. I hear the soft click of her apartment door as I rise from my chair, starting to my soon-to-be room.

I shut the door softly, not bothering to flip the light on as I gently place my tea on the nightstand and plop onto the neatly made bed. Too bad I'm so disorganized; the room won't look as nice once I settle in. I reach over and turn the bed lamp on, grasping the mug and brushing it against my lips. I take a gulp, ignoring the burning sensation in my mouth.

My eyes catch the writing on my wrist, and I look down at John's name. _I'll tell Mrs. Hudson about John some other day_ , I suppose. I'm too ashamed right now, too exhausted, and I find that I just want to sip my tea and then go to sleep, for once.

Maybe depression makes you tired.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson?" I call, knocking rythmically against her door. I hear the almost nonexistent tap of her feet, growing louder as she finally unlocks and opens the door.

"Yes, Sherlock," she says, gesturing for me to come in, I guess. I wave away her offer, still standing awkwardly under the doorway as she patiently waits for whatever I have to say.

Defeated, I push past her and plop onto her floral couch, messing with the teared cushion beside where I'm seated as she sits down in the chair across from me.

"What is it, dear?" she inquires, and my stomach is too tied in knots to care about being called dear right now.

"You...ha...," I start, too fast, tripping over my words. She looks at me, slightly worried, yet slightly amused, as I take a deep, comforting breath.

"Did you ever "go color", to use a colloquial term?"

She stares at me oddly for a moment before crossing her legs and saying, almost uncomfortably,"Well, no, Sherlock..."

"But-But weren't you married?" I chuckle vaguely, awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood, just a little.

She doesn't smile.

"Yes, well, I thought I could settle for him, but I suppose I couldn't, considering neither of us ever saw colors and now, well, you've killed him," she says, rather bluntly, smiling slightly despite the way she's averting her sad gaze. I'm not entirely sure how to comfort her.

I remain silent a moment, scouring her living room as I clear my throat to continue,"Were you still happy, I mean, before the whole... _arguing_ thing...?" I wave my hand awkwardly, not used to more personal discussions such as this one. Mrs. Hudson's look turns wistful, a small, genuine smiling curling her lips.

"I suppose, a long time ago, we did care about each other. Maybe love is too strong a word. Why do you ask?"

I lean back against the sofa, trying to conform my buzzing thoughts, but it's proving to be more difficult to reign over my mind now than usual. I tap my forehead repeatedly, annoyed. Then, I answer truthfully:

"I have a soulmate."

It's a simple statement, really. It's like saying," _Tomatoes are red_ ," or," _The grass is green_." _Bad examples_ , I think, my mind drifting to thoughts of what the two colors look like. Even so, the fact still remains that tomatoes are, indeed, red, and grass is, indeed, green.

Mrs. Hudson looks stunned for a minute before she's giggling and clapping her hands softly.

"Ohh, Sherlock; that's lovely! What's his name?!" she shouts, her smile so wide that I'm (only sort of) tempted to ask her if it hurts.

I ponder Mrs. Hudson's assumption that it would be a he, but only for a moment as I remember she's asked me a question. Without any hesitation, I blurt it out:

"John."

I haven't realized how good his name sounds out loud; how _perfect_. No matter if I were to say it or sigh it or shout it or sob it, it would still sound absolutely beautiful to my ears.

I grin.

"Oh, dear, this is wonderful...," Mrs. Hudson sniffles, drawing a handkerchief up to swat her face. "You haven't found him yet, have you?" She sounds hopeful, excited.

"Unfortunately, no," I mumble, my smile morphing into a thin frown.

I glance up to her face, and her smile is slowly falling away as she processes what I've said. Only a moment later, her whole face is frowning, and I'm frowning, and I really just want us to be _smiling_ again.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

25 years of being alive, and I _still_ haven't found John. The number of Johns I've met in my entire existence has been...38, I believe. Since being 14, I've met 24 of those 38.

"Yup," I confirm curtly, my lips emphasizing the 'p'. She shifts uncomfortably, and I feel uncomfortable too.

"I'm sure you'll find him," Mrs. Hudson whispers softly, head held limply in her hands as her gentle eyes stare into mine. I want to believe her, but I've been telling myself since I was a teenager," _It's alright, Sherlock; you'll find him_ ," and it hasn't happened yet.

"Maybe," I drawl, and my legs have already carried me to the door and I'm saying a tight goodbye as I slam the door shut.

Mrs. Hudson doesn't follow me, and I don't turn back.

* * *

 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed, and yes, I know things seem kind of bleak right now, but the story will get happier. I promise. Anyway, if you could leave some feedback, I'd really appreciate it.**


	4. An Army Life For Me

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. Any feedback you could give me is very appreciated.**

* * *

 _Hey, John,_

 _I hear you'll be gone a while longer, yeah? That's okay, so long as you're alright and you return in two years, like you're supposed to. I know how much you love your sweets, so I made you some chocolate raspberry biscuits!_

 _Love,_  
 _Mum_

I read over the cursive script again, smiling slightly as I finally fold up the paper and lift the tray of biscuits off the table beside my bed. I peel the plastic wrap away, breathing in deeply as I pinch one and wave it in front of my nose. It smells delicious, just as Mum's biscuits always do, but I still wish I had a color to go with the smell.

I pop the treat into my mouth as I replace the wrap over the top of the plate and slip it under my cot. I can't have the others knowing I have sweets; the whole plate would be gone by this afternoon.

I lift up from my bed with a groan, stretching my back as I turn to look at my clock.

 _5:56 AM._

I groggily reach for my bedside table and pull out an outfit for the day, cradling it in my arms. I sigh, turning to see my "roommates" still lounging lazily on their cots and snoring softly. I shake my head fondly, my feet pattering against the floor as I make my way to the barracks for a shave and a shower. My hair has grown...unruly since my recent deployment; it's really been bothering me.

Turning the knosel of the showerhead, I shimmy out of my tank top and drop it carelessly onto the tiled floor; not like anyone else is awake yet. Won't matter much if I make a mess. Steam billows up from the tight stall as I quickly yank my boxers off and fling them away. Next, I toe my socks off, then splay my hand under the spraying water, feeling the heat.

Smiling in approval, I slink under the spray of water, relishing in the way the warm rivulets dribble down my back. It feels as if the steamy drops soak into my skin and alleviate the dull ache that's been blooming there for days. I feel the knots in my muscles gradually dissipate as I lean against the tiled wall and reach for the bottle of travel-size shampoo on the shower's ledge.

Squeezing a dollop into my hand, I roughly rake my hands through my disheveled hair. The white foam smells cheap, but it still smells good enough for me as I inhale deeply and turn to get the body wash.

I unhook the loofa from the showerhead and squeeze the (once again, cheap) body wash onto it. I rinse it under the water and smooth my hands over it before starting my way down my body.

I start with my neck and shoulders, then my arms, hands, and chest, next my torso and back before going to my legs, feet, and, well, you know, the...others. After cleansing my whole body, I watch the foamy soap and shampoo combine with the water and slither away, pooling by the drain as I rinse myself off.

Turning the knosel off, I step out of the shower and reach for a towel from the rack beside me. I ruffle my soaked hair with it before rubbing it over the rest of my body.

I pull my baggy white t-shirt off the sink vanity, slipping it over my head as I reach for my pair of clean boxers. After pulling them up, I reach for my camo cargo pants, shimmying them on as I glance to the mirror in front of me.

After replacing the towel, neatly folded, onto the rack, I bend over to scoop up the mound of dirty clothing. I start back for the barracks, my wet feet slapping softly against the floor, echoing in the hallway as I walk back to me and my team's room.

 _6:21 AM. Hmmm...must of been daydreaming in the shower..._

Now that I think about it, I vaguely remember thinking about all the colors I might see if I looked into the mirror across from my shower stall. Mum told me my skin is a tan color, and she tried to explain it, but it's still difficult to imagine. She told me water looks blue, but not in small quantities, so I tried to imagine the "clear" color she told me of. I wondered what color the shampoo and body wash and loofa and tiles were. I wondered what the blue of my eyes and the blonde of my hair looked like, trying to think of how Mum had described it. _I wondered all of this while I was washing myself._

 _I'm still wondering, now_ , I suppose.

I realized that I couldn't imagine any of it while I was standing there, letting the spray wash over me, and I felt disappointed; I _still_ feel disappointed.

I sigh tiredly, albeit it's still in the early hours of the morning. As I sit on my cot and drag my shoes out from underneath of it, I see one of the soldiers in the bed across from me stir awake. He wakes groggily as I pull socks from my bedside drawer.

As I slip on my shoes and tie the shoe laces, I realize the soldier is Bill Murray, one of my closer, more sincere, army mates.

"Mornin', Capn'," he murmurs into the pillow. As he tries to push himself up, he licks his lips and squints at the clock on his beside table.

 _6:23 AM_ , it now reads.

"Morning, Bill," I respond, finally finished putting on my shoes. He smiles at me as he rolls over and yawns, rubbing at his squinty eyes. "Might want to wake the rest up soon," I say, gesturing to the rest of the barrack's filled beds.

He nods faintly as he asks,"How do ya get up so early, John?" His words are slurred with sleep as he grabs an outfit from his nightstand and makes his way to the hallway.

I smile. "I've gotten used to it," I say simply, and he accepts what I'm saying, then, he's walking to the showers.

He disappears down the hallway as I get up from my cot and press the alarm button on my clock. I turn the volume knob all the way up before slapping my hands over my ears and sitting back down on my bed.

I grin as the recruits shift in their sleep, then almost flinch away from their cots. One soldier rolls completely off the bed onto the floor, and he startles awake. Another tries pressing the off button on his alarm, but just manages to turn it on, making him almost leap from his bed as he quickly turns it back off.

I turn my alarm clock off as I shout,"Good morning, sleeping beauties!" None of them smile at me as one glares daggers and some others cross their arms. I smile mischievously as I scratch the back of my neck in mock embarrassment. "Oh, sorry; did I do that?"

Wiping the smug smirk off of my face, I hold my hand up in a morning salute, which they return almost automatically, despite their drowsiness.

"At ease," I command, and they all assume the position, as do I. "All of you are required to take showers, so go get into a bathroom stall, you sleepy prats."

They smile slightly at the nickname, and although it may sound a bit harsh, they've been around me long enough to know it's just part of the way I show affection.

They practically drag themselves out of bed as they saunter into the hallway, venturing towards the shower stalls. I rake a hand through my unkempt hair as the last of them file out of the room, Bill appearing in the doorway. I turn to the clock again.

 _6:37 AM._

"I heard them grumbling about being woken up so early," he says, a small smile on his face as he goes to get his own shoes on. "Then again, I heard what woke them up, too."

I turn to him, then turn to the table beside my bed as I open the drawer. Drawing my personal Browning from its confines, I stuff it into my pocket after making sure the safety is on.

"Easiest, fastest way to wake them. Breakfast is soon, and I wasn't going to wait up for them if they were still asleep," I reply, glancing to Bill's agreeing face. He nods slightly as he finally finishes tying his shoe laces and I sit back down on my bed. I lean back onto my pillow, continuing,"If you don't mind, while they're all not here, I'd like to get some peace and quiet."

He silently nods to me as he leans back onto his cot as well, saying,"Yeah, I'd like a bit of a rest before we go to breakfast."

So we lay, and we don't talk.

My thoughts drift to colors again, to the crimson color that was explained to me during medical school when I asked what it looked like. To the olive color that Bill explained is the hue of my camo cargo pants. To the sandy tint of the sand of Afghanistan that Mum told me about before I left.

Then, my thoughts morph into ones of my family; Mum, Dad, Harry. I remember I have a photo hidden in my nightstand, and I lift up from my bed, pulling the drawer open. I scour the whole confinement before triumphantly pulling the picture out and shutting the drawer.

I let my thumb run over the teared top corner of the Polaroid photo, reading the writing scrawled on the bottom corner.

 _9-8-76 John's 5th Birthday Party_

I can see myself, short and scrawny, beside my stocky father. My mother and Harry are standing behind us. Dad and I are wearing eyepatches, and I'm wielding a foam sword, grinning with a bandana covering my shaggy locks of hair. He's got a pirate hat on his head, an arm slung carelessly around my shoulder as my mother hugs him from behind. Harry, despite her usual feigned indifference, is smiling widely beside me, slightly taller and older.

I remember the day like it's yesterday as I smile down at it, remembering the way Mum smiled at my father, how happy her grin was. I wish I could see the colors of the picture, know what shades I was wearing on my birthday.

I suppose most of my thoughts always end up back on the subject of color, but I just can't get it out of my head.

Suddenly, I hear all of the boys file back into the room, roudy and soggy as they go to their cots to retrieve their shoes and socks. I turn to my alarm clock, whatever-color numbers almost burning into my vision.

 _6:52 AM._

I lean forward off my bed, stretching my arms as I glance between Bill and the rest of the soldiers.

"Be ready within five minutes; chow time in eight," I announce, and I walk out of the door, alone. Bill doesn't follow me as I venture to the chow hall, and I feel so desolate with all of the gray walls surrounding me, enclosing me, making me feel almost...claustrophobic.

 _I just want color._

* * *

 **A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed! John and Sherlock will meet soon, I promise, but I still need suggestions for a menial job Sherlock could take up. If you can't give me a suggestion, that's alright I suppose.**


	5. Mycroft Sodding Holmes

**A/N: Thanks to anyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed so far! I deeply appreciate every one of you for reading my work. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter. I know I had fun writing it.**

* * *

"Gin and tonic?" I conclude as a new woman sits down, my eyes flitting over her profile. She gapes dumbly at me for a moment before she shakes her head a bit and nods in approval, ridiculously bright gray hair bouncing against her forehead.

I nod in understanding as I swiftly transfer to the man beside her, my eyes scanning quickly up and down his form. Ah; he's a whiskey man.

"Whiskey on the rocks, I presume?" I say, his head snapping up, eyes peering at me from beneath greasy hair. His utter lack of hygiene is plenty repulsive; at least the woman prior had on makeup and had curled her hair, even if she knew she wasn't considered 'pretty'.

The man nods vaguely, not looking at all impressed with my deduction. I frown at his lack of reaction, but nod before finally striding to the last customer. She's gazing at her phone as my eyes take in her chubby face.

"Bloody Mary, yes?" I question triumphantly. She glances up to me, her face pinched up like she's been smelling something particularly awful. It kind of reminds me of Mycroft's smug face, and I barely register the way my fists clench at the thought of him.

This woman has a lesser reaction than the first, only staring at me with an alert glint to her eyes, but it's a reaction nonetheless, and I find myself slightly pleased. She nods before looking back down to her phone, and I nod in acknowledgement of her order, despite she isn't looking.

"Ah, Lestrade; lager, I suppose?"

Glancing up at the D.I. as he swings the door open, I walk towards the stool he pulls out, leaning lightly against the mahogany counter. He nods at me, pulling off his black coat and laying it on his seat before sitting down. Before I can retrieve all of the drinks requested, Lestrade grips my wrist.

"Sherlock...have you... _kicked_ your _habit_ yet?" he says uncomfortably. I see him shift in his seat as he pulls his hand away, instead tapping his fingers against the bar.

"Actually, I almost have, Graham," I state proudly, placing my hands on my hips.

" _Greg_ ," he corrects almost immediately, sighing a little as he leans on his elbows. He does look proud of me, though, as he smiles afterwards. "That's great, Sherlock. How about I make you a deal? If you can stay off the coke for another month, I'll let you on cases again."

I hate to admit to any sort of happiness, but I'm feeling really giddy in this moment as I smile slightly. "You've got yourself a-"

" _Oi_! I'm not paying you to chatter, I'm paying you for a pint! So; go _fucking_ get it!"

I cant my head to see the livid and clammy face of the man from before, a snarl curling his lips. I grimace at him, but I comply after a moment, bound to conform to his requests if I wish to receive a paycheck at the end of the week.

"Right away, _sir_ ," I grate out dangerously. I'm ready to bite out something nasty about the fact that he's just bitter because his long-time girlfriend broke up with him recently, or that he can't get a job, but Lestrade places a restraining hand on my forearm. I glance at him in annoyance, but finally sigh in hesitant defeat as I shrug his hand off and start to gather materials to mix the drinks.

"Come back at 11," I whisper, and he nods before lifting up from his stool and starting for the door.

"You better have my drink, then," he says jokingly, pushing the glass door open.

I smile slightly.

* * *

Lestrade opens the door as I just start to shoo out the other customers. He stands off to the side as I wave my hands for them to remove themselves from the premises. Their loud groans grate on my ears, and I'm becoming tired of their whinging, but they finally start to rise from their tables. Luckily, there are only seven people still in the pub, sans Lestrade.

As the last man files out, the D.I. comes to sit on the stool he used this morning. I nod in greeting as I start wiping down the bar, plucking the glasses off the counter and placing them in the sink.

"So, you go a month more without any drug use, you get a case; deal or no deal?"

I smirk with a certain finality. "Deal," I conceed, and he smiles faintly. His smile morphs into a grin as I slyly slide a pint of lager in front of him.

"Appreciate it," he states, tipping his pint of alcohol slightly in further thanks. I just nod at him before going to collect utensils from the disheveled tables.

"So," he drawls after taking a long swig of his drink,"...anything new this week?"

I glance incredulously at him, practically glare at him, but he merely shrugs innocently and turns back to his lager. He knows I despise small talk, but I'll indulge him, just this once, since he's being generous with the whole drug fiasco.

"Well...my _cake eating_ , _intrusive arse_ of a brother has been very... _tecthy_ this week. Whatever has got him peeved, I doubt it's very important, but he's irritated with me because of it; even more than he usually is, I mean. It's been fairly annoying," I divulge, bringing a cluster of glasses back to the sink.

Lestrade sighs thoughtfully, taking another sip of lager before he questions,"Don't you think it's a bit weird that I've known you for almost 2 years, but I don't even know your bloody brother's name?"

"I don't see the relevance of your question," I respond, turning the faucet on to start rinsing the cups and dishes.

"I mean, you only ever refer to him as your 'archenemy' or your 'cake eating, intrusive arse of a brother'. Don't you think those titles are just the teeniest bit dramatic?"

"What ever are you talking about, Gavin?" I reply innocently. "Greg; _whatever_. But if you're here now, at least help me dry the glasses," I say, tossing him a towel as he rises from the stool.

He makes his way behind the counter and stands to the right of me, wrapping the towel around the glasses I've already washed.

"But seriously; what _is_ your brother's name?" he asks after a moment, an inquisitive expression on his face as I continue to wipe the martini and alcohol glasses.

"Uggh...it's Mycroft _sodding_ Holmes!"

Suddenly, Lestrade goes rigid beside me. His hand stops rubbing the towel over the wet utensils, and his expression is wiped completely blank. I wouldn't say I feel worried, just... _put off_ (?).

"Lestrade?"

"Uh, er...yeah?" he mumbles, hands abruptly reverting back to their cleaning motions. I stare intently at him from the corner of my eye, catching the way his jaw is clenched and his mouth is terse. I admit, I'm not the best at emotions, but I can tell he's uncomfortable.

"What is it?"

As soon as the question leaves my mouth, Lestrade rubs the back of his neck, a flush rising on his cheeks. I gather data, recalling any information I may have retained to determine what is being left unsaid.

Then, but a moment later, I have it, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of the answer:

Lestrade and Mycroft might be each other's _soulmates_.

I snort in amusement as he turns his narrowed eyes on me, clearly unamused with this whole situation. I hold back another snicker as I start to clean a new tumbler and pass it over to his outstretched hands.

"You lot might be soulmates!" I quip, smirking smugly as his already flushed face morphs into a deeper shade of gray. His embarrassment quickly turns into anger as he suddenly turns on me, eyes wild and jaw taut.

"You _arse_! You've known for _two years_ that your so-called 'archenemy' might be my bloody _soulmate_ , and you haven't said a _word_ until now?!"

I shift my gaze to him as I say,"My apologies. I must've deleted it."

"Bloody _deleted_ it; _how_ do you delete that? _Why_ would you delete that?" he stammers, face now darker in anger, not out of sheer humiliation.

I grimace slightly as I turn back to stare at the glass in my hand. I know why I deleted it, but I really don't want Lestrade thinking I'm more petty than he already probably thinks I am. Then again, lying about it most likely isn't going to get me anywhere.

I heave a long sigh before tentatively starting,"I just...when we met, you said your name was Gregory, and I remembered that Mycroft's wrist had that name on it. I...I suppose I was bitter about knowing his soulmate and not my own. So I...deleted the knowledge from my mind, as to make myself believe that you couldn't be Mycroft's soulmate, even though you probably were."

He looks incredulously at me for a moment before his face softens in an odd way. The tightness of his jaw disperses, and the expression on his face oddly reminds me of one Mrs. Hudson has given me before.

"Sherlock," he sighs,"you'll find your soulmate, alright? Just because me and Mycroft might meet before you and your soulmate do, it doesn't mean you'll never meet them-"

" _John_ ," I interrupt, glancing down to my feet before meeting his eyes. "His name is John," I reiterate, voice softer and more vulnerable than I intended it to sound.

"John," he tries, smiling at me a little. "You and John will find each other."

I nod faintly.

We stay in companionable silence for many minutes, continuing to wash and dry the dishes until there aren't any left. I gesture for him to go sit back down on his stool, and he complies, grasping his mug of lager and taking a greedy gulp.

"...By the way you describe him," Lestrade starts, "maybe it'd be in my best interest that me and Mycroft don't actually meet..." His tone is joking as he smiles gently at me, taking another sip of his drink.

"Well, I suppose you might have to get used to his love of umbrellas and cakes," I joke back. "But first, you'll have to meet him to see if he even is your soulmate."

He nods in acknowledgement before taking another sip.

"Although, the one thing I find odd is that he spies on me all the time, so he must've known your name a long time ago, even if you didn't know his. So; why would he avoid you for so long, if he knew you might be his soulmate?"

The D.I. looks thoughtful momentarily as he absorbs what I've said, tapping his fingers against the dark gray mahogany of the counter. His forehead creases in thought as he frowns at his mug of lager, sighing after a moment.

"I know what you're going to say, Lestrade," I state as he starts to open his mouth,"and I assure you: no, he wouldn't avoid you because he doesn't want a soulmate."

He gradually shuts his mouth, bringing his gaze back up to me as he says,"I suppose I might just have to ask him when we meet."

I nod as we fall into another dip of silence, then I pull up my sleeve and check my watch.

 _12:01 AM._

"Well, Greg; it was nice talking with you," I admit as I sling my coat on, smiling slightly as I stride out from behind the counter. "I'll text Mycroft and let him know to get a chauffeur to pick you up for your 'meeting'."

He glances at me as he goes and turns on the sink, rinsing and cleansing his mug as he replies,"Wow; you actually remembered my name."

I smirk as he finishes drying the glass and opens a cabinet, placing it inside. I wait for him to come out from behind the bar and grab his own coat. Then, we both stride out of the pub, and I pull out my key to lock the door as I say,"See you on that next case, Lestrade."

He nods to me as I pull the key out and turn to face him, saying a last,"See you later," before nodding. He starts off down the sidewalk, waving slightly as I hear thunder crackling in the distance.

I raise my arm and shout to hail a cab, and it just so happens one is coming around the bend of this street. They spot me, and the car sidles up to the pavement as I make my way to it, opening up the door.

"221B Baker Street," I say as I shut the door, pulling out my mobile as the cabbie presses the accelerator.

 _Prepare to send an ominous black car tomorrow to Lestrade's location. You and the D.I. are finally going to have a little get together.-SH_

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 **A/N: Specials thanks to The Darkneon Flash for the suggestion of Sherlock being a bartender. Also, thanks to anyone who suggested any other menial job. I'll explain more in-depth why Sherlock is a bartender in a future chapter. Any feedback, whether negative or positive, I'd appreciate.**


	6. Fragments

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed so far. I really hope everyone enjoys this chapter. It was a bit of a challenge for me to write, but I made it through.**

 **Warning: uses of the 'f word', thoughts of dying.**

* * *

"Hey, Captain, stay with me!"

 _What's that?_ I feel sticky as I see Bill's head above me. I feel like waving, but moving my arm just isn't...appealing.

Then, I feel a searing pain along my left shoulder as I try and shift. _How have I not felt it until now?_

"It's okay, you'll be fine."

I wonder past the pain if it's just me, or Bill sounds more frightened than I feel. He sounds fuzzy in my ears and he doesn't look like usual, which, frankly, is terrifying.

Then, I turn my head, and I see it; an entrance wound on the left, a deep, white hole under my skin. My eyes take in the discoloration of the sand. I suddenly realize that I might not live through this.

 _The sand isn't supposed to be this dark. It's grainy, coarse; not sticky and rich. This is bad, that doesn't belong there; there shouldn't be a puddle of gray here.._.

"Watson, everything's under control. Carter!" Murray gestures to my right. "Radio Medevac; now!"

Murray sounds muffled, but I can feel his breath ghosting over my face; the feeling is unpleasant. It tickles my cheeks then trickles down my spine, and it's only making me feel colder. _Wetter_.

I don't like it.

I hear something through the ringing, now, something much louder than anything Bill could produce. I glance around frantically, trying not to turn because I know I'll just start burning. Then the burn will abate, and I'll feel chilled. A deep, endless cycle. A full, fiery, chilly, unpleasant circle.

" _Watson_! Stick it out and just look at me!"

My eyes gradually lock onto Bill, and the way he looks isn't an expression I want to see ever again. It looks like he's having his insides ripped out, but the pain is just so much that he can't feel it, doesn't mind it.

I wonder if I look the same.

"You gotta stay with me, John."

No Captain, or Watson; just _John_ , and I realize he's scared. I am too, or I think I am.

Bill applies pressure to my shoulder and, _God_ , it hurts like bloody hell. I writhe beneath his fingers, trying to get the burning to dissipate or do _something_ if only so the ache will go away. His hands steady me, though, and I feel something cold bite into my flesh.

"Shhh, I'll get it out; don't you worry."

I'm not worried, but it hurts. It hurts so _fucking_ much that my tongue is bleeding from trying to bite back a scream, or a sob, or a whimper, or a _something_. I clench my fists in a vain attempt to calm myself, but my fingernails dig into my palms so forcefully they bleed.

"John, don't you dare give out on me!"

My eyes flit open, and every little thing feels so huge now. I can feel the flutter of my eyelashes against my cheeks. The pulse of my heart through my pounding head. The pool of blood seeping into my uniform. The feel of grains of sand scattered in my hair. Everything is so magnified.

 _I'll miss it all_.

"You can't _fucking_ pass out on me!"

I'm left with the tingle of a slap, and I realize this is the first time Bill has ever cursed; maybe I should feel flattered.

Sleep sounds so good right now, so I just lay my head against the warm sand, soaking up all of the sun I can. Maybe the sun can quell the queasiness of my stomach, or my lightheadedness. Then again, all I can feel is cold clawing its way over my body.

You would think it would be overly hot when you die, all of the blood pouring from your warm and insulated body. I just feel cold, though. My blood feels frigid and it snakes under my palms and rubs itself along my back. Everything is so _cold_.

There the pliers are, deep in my shoulder, nipping at my skin, and then, oh, the warmth I feel when a shard is removed.

 _It's glorious._

"Keep your eyes open, Watson."

 _Were my eyes shut? How didn't I notice?_ I blink lazily, seeing the sun eclipsed by Murray's concentrated face. I'm glad to have Bill, otherwise I would probably already be dead. Bleeding out and letting a gray puddle soak beneath me and into the sand.

I sense another sharp sting again as the tool is lodged back in my shoulder, and I look at it this time, despite my better judgement. The metal glints in the sun, and I hear myself hiss as he yanks the pliers from inside.

 _Another_ shard dislodged.

"Please... _God_...," I grit through my teeth. It feels like blood is bubbling up from my throat and I'm gargling, choking on it, but then I realize it all just feels dry. "Let me...live..."

"You won't _fucking_ die on me, John!" Another curse. "Stanley! Get your _ass_ over here, and cover us!"

I sense the pounding boots more than hear them as I'm drowned by Stanley's shadow. I feel a sudden cold rush over me again, and the pliers being dug back into my flesh doesn't help.

 _Please, God, can I be accepted into heaven now? Is this hell I'm enduring? This is so_ fucking _awful I can barely_ stand _it, and I just want some solace, or warmth, or_ something solid _! Just throw me a_ bloody _bone,_ please _-_

"Carter! Get over hear, now! I need more cover!"

 _What's even the bloody point of covering me now? Am I such precious cargo I can't have the happiness of dying?_ I just want to feel warm again.

I scream as Bill pulls another shard from my skin, placing it again on the tray beside me. I squint at it, and there are so many I don't feel like counting.

I feel queasy again as my vision fades slightly. I rapidly blink, trying to keep awake.

"There should only be a few more, Captain..." (Bill's voice wrenches my eyes open, which I'm grateful for.) He says it softly, almost as if he thinks he needs my forgiveness to rationalize the pain he knows he's putting me through. I don't really care about the pain, or how it started; I just want it to _stop_.

I growl as the pliers bite back into my shoulder, scouring for another clip of the bullet. The tool waggles around, digging in so deep I think it might touch the bone there.

I want to throw up and just not look, but it's so difficult to turn away, so I close my eyes. But then, the complete darkness of my vision swallows me, and I'm terrified. I don't want this to be the last thing I see; I hope there's an afterlife, not just for my sake, but for all of the other deceased soldiers sprawled along the battlefield.

I try and drown out the pain, reopening my eyes. I can discern the bodies in the distance, caked with such a dark, thick-looking gray, so much so that they look drowned. They're the ones Bill and the others couldn't get to. The ones _left_ _behind_.

"Nurse, the chopper is landing!"

"Oh, God, _yes_ ; we're leaving soon, John."

I try to smile, but it's interrupted as Bill wrenches another fragment from beneath my skin. Then, he quickly plunges the tool back in. My eyes sting for a moment, and I bite into my bottom lip.

Finally, the next shard pulls out. Murray smiles at me, and I suddenly feel the whole difference; the bullet is gone. _All_ of it.

A sudden euphoria washes over me so strongly that my face breaks into a faltering grin. I refrain from moving the rest of my body, though, because I don't want that blaring ache to return just yet. I want to celebrate accordingly.

"We're leavin', Cap'n." Bill's voice is so relieved, so overtly happy as he calls,"Get the stretcher over hear! Gun shot wound to the left shoulder; shattered fragments have been removed!"

I observe the medics as they carry a gurney over to me, their clunky boots hammering against the terrain. It's an oddly reassuring sound after having such a long, loud, low ringing in your ears.

I wince slightly as they shrug me onto the soft cotton of the stretcher, my shoulder bouncing painfully. The four of them, one woman and three men, look apologetic as they continue to move my sensitive body.

Completely on the gurney, I suddenly feel dizzy as they swiftly clamor to the Black Hawk a short distance away. I register the stomp of feet as I stiffly turn my head again to look at my fallen comrades one last time.

"You'll be alright."

I turn to Bill, him showing a small smile as he trails beside the stretcher. There's still a dull ache in my shoulder, and the pain sometimes sky rockets, but I'll survive.

I lay my head down completely as I'm hulled onto the helicopter; considering what I just went through, I feel like I deserve a breather.

Splotches of gray nip at the edges of my closed eyes, licking at the darkness as if it's their sustenance. I have the awareness to register it, but I don't _really_ mind.

The dull ache in my shoulder seems to fade away as the voices of the medics and sounds of the helicopter trail off. The last thing I register is the sound of the helicopter's blades ripping through the air, destroying the sound barrier.

Then there's nothing.

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 **A/N: Any feedback or critism is definitely appreciated. Suggestions or questions are also welcome. (Sorry, bit of a short chapter. I thought it fitting to end it where I did, though.)**


	7. The Best Man

**A/N: Sorry for not updating as quickly as usual. I had lots of fun writing this chapter, and I think it's pretty good, so I hope you enjoy it as well. Thank you to anyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, or even just read my story; I appreciate all of you.**

* * *

I wouldn't say I'm _bitter_ or anything, but having Mycroft flaunting his colors nearly whenever he sees me is starting to grate on my nerves. Sometimes he'll mention the lovely shade of green Gregory's name is written in, or mention that it's strange that some things stay gray even after 'going color'.

At least Lestrade has the courtesy to refrain from mentioning anything color-related around me, even when I'm probably an arse to him a fair share of the time we spend together. He only rarely slips up and points out how particulary beautiful the sky looks or accidently forgets I can't see in color.

Almost _30_ years old, and I'm still seeing only the dull pallete of gray, black, and white. _Pathetic_.

Even Mycroft's already gone color.

* * *

"No need to fret, brother dear. I'm sure you'll find your John eventually."

His condescension is really starting to push all the right buttons, and I know he's doing it on purpose. My eyes narrow vaguely as I turn away to hide the disgusted curl of my lips. I wonder how me and him were even friends at one point.

"Don't feed me lies, Mycroft. I've met 43 Johns in my entire life, none of which have even been remotely close to being my soulmate," I sneer, looking back to my brother's scrunched up face. Good; I'm glad I'm annoying him so.

"You _will_ find him, Sherlock," Greg cuts in, placing a refraining hand on Mycroft's. "It'll just take some time. Myc and I were older than you when we first met." The D.I. smiles at me, but I'm too busy hating the repulsively sentimental nickname he just referred to my brother as. I want someone to refer to me like that.

Lock might sound nice. Sher? Sherly; no, sounds too much like a female-

" _Sherlock_!?"

I extricate myself from my Mind Palace, training my eyes on Lestrade's face as he looks at me warily.

"What were you thinking about?" he asks, and he sounds genuinely curious. Unlike Mycroft, who usually asks just to know why I'm not listening to his instructions, Lestrade's nose isn't crinkled in distaste.

"Nicknames," I say simply, giving my brother a withering look as I rise from my chair. "Now, brother, if you don't have anything useful for me, I will be forced to evict you from my flat."

"Nonsense; you're too lethargic for all of that." I swiftly turn to Mycroft's smug face, his eyes glinting with some wry form of humor I don't find amusing nor tolerable.

"Oh, my mistake. I'll just have Mrs. Hudson show you the exit." I smile saccharinely, mock waving my hand at them as I gesture to the door. Mycroft remains rooted to the couch, although his face scrunches up even more, if that's even possible.

"Come on, Myc," Greg sighs, patting his hand gently; I want to fling myself onto the chair across the room at the affectionate gesture.

My brother glances at the D.I., annoyance clearly written on his face as he looks back to me. It's fairly obvious that I must look petulant(Mycroft says my bottom lip juts out and I cross my arms), but he sighs in defeat, and I know I've officially won this time.

"Well, Sherlock...such a nice little chat we've had...may I ask if your answer is yes or no before I leave?"

I stop suddenly, forgetting myself as I try to remember what it is this conversation had even started because of. Then, the answer is blatantly obvious, and it enrages me.

My fists clench on their own accord, and I feel my face contort into a nasty scowl, but I know I'm not angry at either Greg or Mycroft(although both of them are sometimes dreadful). I'm just...envious, I suppose the word would be.

"Oh...bloody _yes_ , Mycroft!"

He goads me with a stern look, eyebrows raised as if to say," _I want to hear you say it_ ". I glare daggers at him momentarily before Lestrade gives me a pleading look, and I sigh long-windedly.

"...Fine...Yes, Mycroft; I'll be your _bloody_ best man!"

"Oh, well that's very kind of you," he smirks, swinging his umbrella too cheerily; I'm not sure how Lestrade can stand the man. He saunters up to me and pats my shoulder as he tugs the D.I. along. "Well, we'll be off now, brother dear. I'll see to your...preparations for the wedding."

I shake his hand off of me as I gesticulate to the door again. "You should be off now; the British government can't stay out of commission for too long." I stiffly clap his shoulder, and he gives me a look that screams," _Really_ ," but I honestly don't care.

"Come on, Myc." Greg is in the doorway, beckoning my brother, and I find that I'm glad Mycroft found his soulmate, in some twisted sense of the word; he has someone else he can bother now. Someone who can keep him away from me.

"Yes, ' _Myc_ ', go on." I wildly motion to the door again, much more annoyed with his actions than I overtly show; I can't have him thinking he's winning anything.

"Oh, don't think you'll be seeing the last of me-"

"No, sadly, I won't see the last of you until you're dead," I sigh, mocking dismay as I splay my hand over my chest. "Such a tragic, depressing life I will live without your presence."

I'm silently pleased at the way his lips curl into an almost snarl. Lestrade finally intervenes, though, pulling at my brother's arm incessantly.

" _Mycroft_." He turns abruptly to the D.I.; probably at the explicit use of his full name. "We've got to go."

Mycroft scans his soon-to-be husband's profile, then rotates to face me. He gives me the same once-over before sighing for so long his lungs sound like they'll give out any moment. He eventually grips Lestrade's hand and makes his way to the top of the steps, but then he turns back.

"Just be good at the wedding, won't you, brother dear?" I faintly register the slight smirk on his face, and I have the "sudden" urge to punch him, here and now.

"I'll try," I grate out, giving Lestrade an incredulous look; Mycroft doesn't seem to understand privacy whatsoever. This is my flat, and I asked him to leave; he and the D.I. should be _gone_ by now.

"Good," is all he breathes before he and Lestrade are trotting down the stairs, Mycroft's posh shoes clacking on every step. I sigh as I twirl to see them through the window, his ominous black limo parallel with the curb.

Disgustingly, they kiss before piling into the vehicle, Lestrade with an almost ditzy smile as he clamors in. I scoff as I practically throw myself into my chair; how can they be so overtly affectionate in front of me?

I want someone to kiss me like that.

* * *

"I, Gregory Lestrade, take you, Mycroft Holmes, to be my lawfully wedded husband."

A bunch of clapping follows the kiss, but I'm left wondering how Mycroft and Lestrade know so many people; how many friends can the British government actually have?

They pull apart, and the very smile they give each other is making me (probably irrationally) angry. Before my brother met Lestrade, he almost never smiled, and everything is changing almost too quickly.

Everyone around the room raises their glass, and I find my arm mimicking on its own accord, bringing my hand over my head. Then, everyone tips their head back and drinks, as do I. I've never cared for alcohol much, but this champagne is incredibly sweet and expensive, and I find that I really want another flute of it.

* * *

"Frankly, I never thought I'd be someone's best man, especially not Mycroft's. We barely get along the few times we're together. We fight, he's intrusive, apparently I'm a child; I wouldn't even consider us remotely friends." The audience is looking at me oddly, and I glance to "the newlywed husbands" to see my brother's scrunched up face, scolding me quietly.

"But even though we don't usually get along, and even though I'm envious that he has his soulmate, and I don't," the crowd looks sadly at me(but I brush it off),"I'm genuinely...well, I wouldn't say I'm _happy_ for him, but I _am_ glad. _Of course_ I'm glad he found his soulmate; I'm not selfish enough to loathe him for it." I hear Lestrade chuckle from the seat beside mine.

"Now, Lestrade has been a good friend to me, although he can be a bit overbearing. I know I'm obnoxious, but he deals with it, and with me forgetting his name." A wave of laughs from the audience. "I'm glad he can find some sort of happiness by being with Mycroft, although I'm not sure how he can stand him." More chuckles.

"So although I despise my brother, and my relationship with Lestrade is usually limited to business, I stand here as their best man to congratulate the consummation of... _whatever_ it is they have." My arm snakes up into a toast, as do the audiences before I finally say,"May their relationship prosper, as it is written that soulmates complete each other. Let us hope that Mycroft would drop his cakes and pastries and God awful umbrella for Lestrade, even though I firmly doubt it."

"Cheers," I finally shout, and everyone tips their glass as if they're tipping a hat in thanks. Then they all guzzle the champagne as I swallow a meager sip, and the hall bursts into fits of laughs and shouts and applause and hollers.

Lestrade tugs me roughly, and then I'm being crushed by his arms. I raise my hands in protest, my effort in vain as he continues to grip until I honestly can barely breath. He eventually lets go, a smile on his face that's so happy, and I don't understand why.

Mycroft waddles over to me, a smirk spread across his pudgy face. His expression is less scrunched as he clamps a hand on my shoulder; his way of saying thank you, I suppose. Honestly, he doesn't have to thank me, and I really don't want a hug.

His hand pulls away, and I'm left with a sort of satisfying feeling as Mrs. Hudson approaches me with happy chirps of congratulations. The rest of the hall rejoices in their own way, and my brother makes his way over to his assistant, the one with the ever-changing name, who is standing by the dessert table, ready to cut the cake which Mycroft has been eyeing for quite a long time.

I smile; today is good.

* * *

 **A/N: Any feedback or criticism is highly welcomed and appreciated.**


	8. Civilian Life, Still Fighting

**A/N: I really appreciate anyone that has followed, favorited, or reviewed this story; even those of you that just stop to read, I appreciate. I hope you guys will continue to give me helpful feedback and ask questions and such.**

* * *

Returning to London should be...well, maybe not _fun_ , per se, but definitely nostalgic. I spent my whole childhood there, and going back almost seems like a dream that I could wake up from any moment now. Of course, I've been gone so long that it seems almost foreign to me; I can't even remember what my school looked like or the layout of the subway.

All I've seen for quite some time has been war and death and blood, and I've become acclimatized to violence in a way that could pose a few... _problems_? Bumps in the road? There'll be a lot of those, I'm sure; I've become so accustomed to military life that I almost feel like I...thrive in dangerous situations.

Adapting to life again is making me anxious. Civilian life is so...boring, for lack of a better word. Nearly nothing ever happens, and danger is difficult to come by. The worst thing bound to happen is, what, I get robbed by some _petty_ _thief_?

It's a big change going from shot and bloody comrades to shopping at Tesco's and taking cabs to pubs with old mates.

* * *

I pull at the hem of my jumper, adjusting the collar of my undershirt as I glance up at the mirror in front of me. _I look dull_. I register the fact vaguely, tugging at my sleeve and smoothing my hands over my pants. The shades of gray are starting to get to me.

I knock my stupid cane against my leg, feeling myself bite my lip as I turn to the window. This flat has barely enough space, even with the little amount of items I've acquired. The sun is a blinding white, seeping through the blinds and causing a shadow to stretch out against the door. I glance at my clock.

 _8:12 AM_. _Ella asked me to meet her at 8:30_.

Sighing, I amble to the door, twisting the knob and starting down the stairs. I breach the final door of the flat complex, rays of sunlight pooling around me and causing a tingly feeling to creep into my stomach. Several birds chirp as I listen to couples chatter animatedly. I smile slightly.

Even if it's mundane, civilian life is so peaceful; I love it sometimes.

* * *

"How've you been, John?"

I give Ella a look, causing her to merely shrug and scribble something in her little black book. I swear I see the word ' _cautious_ ' across the top line.

"Met any new people?" she asks, her eyes trained back on mine. I inhale sharply, glancing to the window before looking back at her.

"No," I respond simply, and her pen starts across the paper again. I cross my legs as she finishes her note, peering at the word upside down; ' _unresponsive_ '.

"That's unfortunate," she concedes, tapping the pen against her book. "Would you be willing to meet new people?"

"Depends." I shrug at her questioning look, running my fingers along the smooth fabric stretched over the arms of the chair. She glances at my hands.

"On what?" She crosses her own legs, heels glinting in the lamp light; I wonder what color they are. _Maybe purple_? I think Ella told me once that's her favorite color.

"I don't know...it just does," I reply, crossing my arms. Her eyes linger on me for a moment before she flips the page of her book and writes something else. I'm tired of trying to decode her notes, so I don't bother looking at it.

"So, I assume you haven't met your soulmate, yet?"

I wince, glimpsing the writing on my wrist. The name's clear in the sunlight, but my eyes dart away quickly. I clasp my hands together in my lap.

"No, but I don't feel comfortable talking about that." My sentence is a low mumble, dismissive in its tone. Ella cocks her head.

"Alright. What would you like to talk about then, John?" She scratches something else into her book, then she clicks the pen and places it on her desk; she already knows I don't want to talk anymore.

"I'd just like to...can I leave?" My legs are practically aching to pace, even with the burden of a cane everywhere I go. I see it leaned against the side of Ella's desk.

She smiles at me, but it looks professional and oddly dispassionate. That's alright, though; I don't want her sympathy. I don't care if she doesn't actually give a rat's arse if I get "better" or not.

"Of course. You're allowed to leave anytime you like. Would you like me to see you out?" She unfolds her legs, eyes still locked on my face. There isn't much warmth to them.

I shrug as I rise from my chair, leaning forward to grasp my cane; the solidity of it is slightly comforting as I knock it against the floor. I give her a nod before starting for the door.

"Another appointment tomorrow?" her voice chimes. My head turns back to her inquisitive expression, my hand resting on the doorknob.

"Yeah, okay," I confirm, nodding faintly, and she slowly goes behind her desk. All I receive is a half-hearted wave and a nod before she says,"Have a nice day, John."

I slam the door behind me.

* * *

"Hi, Ma," I mumur, rubbing at my eyes. Squinting at the harsh light, I roll over to face the wall.

"J-Johnn-y...!"

I'm suddenly cradling the phone beside my ear to hear her. She's been crying. My throat tightens, pin-hole thin.

"Mum? What's wrong?" Hoisting myself up, I grip my cane; I stumble. Take a deep breath. "What's happened?"

"J-John...it's so h- _horrible_...his face is gone..." I inhale, then there's nothing. But it's only a moment before my breath is back. It hurts, it all hurts, and I just want it to _stop_.

"Whose...whose face, Ma?" I grate out, turning to the window. It's beautiful outside.

"He's all...bloody. His face i-is... _muti_ -lated..." Her breath hitches audibly, and I can see her figure etched into my vision. She's sitting in my desk chair, sobbing into her palms. I blink slowly.

"Mum, who? I need to know?" I lean against my nightstand. My hands lift the blinds to peer through the glass. I see a happy couple with linked hands. My eyes sting.

"Your...your f- _father_ , Jo-hn..."

Inhale, exhale; I need to tamp my urges down. I can't cry; _oh_ , _no big boy cries_ , _Johnny. Waterworks are pointless_ , _just tether the sorrow. Let your emotions float_.

"What...," I stop, lips thinning into a frown. My eyes find the sun and stare. "What happened?"

"My God, J-John...it's aw-ful. He was d-drunk and h-he was dr-iving home...he hit a-a..." She doesn't finish, I don't start, and together, there aren't any words. The sun beats down on my forehead. It would've felt lovely yesterday.

"Oh, my God," is all I can bite out, and I hear her again. It's almost like she's compensating for her previous silence. Drowning the speaker with tears.

"You hav-have to come s-ee him, John...his face...he's dying...!" Her voice cracks. I suddenly want to roll back into bed; it would be easier. Anything other than now would be easier.

"I...where?" My eyes linger on the couple again; I notice the stroller they're toting around. I can see their baby.

 _He's beautiful_.

"O-oxford stree-t...hurry. They're saying th-ere's too mu-much bleeding to save him...I want y-you to see him be-fore he goes..." I don't respond. l clamor to my desk chair; I can't stand to look at the babe anymore.

"I'm coming, Ma. I'll be there as soon as possible..." I hear a sniffle carried across the line, another, and then a cough. I'm aware of her new tears.

"I love you, John...," she whispers. It's the first full sentence she's said; my eyes prickle.

"Love you too, Mum," I return. I hear her wipe at her eyes before she hangs up. My mobile feels heavy in my palm. I place it on the desk, then I cradle my head in my hands. I just rub circles into my head and blink.

I hear the baby from outside. He's screaming, gasping for air. All of his oxygen is going to his distress.

Before I leave, I weep.

* * *

"I had another nightmare yesterday." I push my gaze, force it to stay on Ella. It's uncomfortable to look at her.

She scrawls another note into her book before ending on the cool line,"Oh, really?" As soon as she finishes writing, her eyes are back on me as she says,"May I ask what was different about this one?"

"How do you know anything was different?" I know my voice probably sounds incredulous, but that's only because I am. The only people who know anything are me, Ma, and the hospital.

"I know because I usually have to ask if you've had nightmares, and even then you aren't so forthcoming with information. Am I wrong in assuming this one was different?" She folds her hands primly in her lap, crossing her legs. I shift slightly to turn to the window, glimpsing a woman walking her dog outside; I'm glad Ella keeps the blinds open.

"No, you're not. There was something different," I confirm, looking again to her face, then down to my lap. I mess with a dangling piece of string on my sleeve.

"It wasn't about the war...it was about my dad." I glance at Ella to see an actual increment of feeling in her eyes. It isn't pity, but there's understanding there; it's better than sympathy.

"What happened to your father, then?" she questions, reopening her little notebook. "It must've been recently, right?"

"Yeah...the day before yesterday. He...," I trail off with bated breath, facing the door. "He got into a car accident because...he was _drunk_. He's _dead_." The statement almost makes my stomach flop as Ella just leans back into her chair and pens in another little statement.

"What happened in the dream?" I fight the urge to correct her; it was definitely not a dream, but a _nightmare_.

"I was in the car with him, almost like the guardian angel beside his shoulder. The devil was himself, and he was speeding, over 100 miles per hour," I explain slowly, heaving a deep, soothing breath. My fingers itch to do something other then stay limp in my lap, but it's almost as if my body's locked.

"I kept warning,' _Da_ , _this isn't good_ ; _Ma will be mad_. _You're under the influence_ , _you should have waited. You would have been better off then_ '. He kept brushing me off like...like I was a piece of _lint_ on his _bloody_ shirt!" I shout, and I carefully try to calm the rising edge to my voice. I want my point to get across.

"I was bloody angry as _hell_ , trying to pull the steering wheel from him...and then..." Ella's eyes are right on me, intently examining all of me. I feel stripped, and cornered, and the feeling is not good. My whole face prickles, almost overly sensitive to the air.

"And then?" Ella prompts, writing something else in her book, flipping idly to the next page like I'm not pouring my heart out to her, a _stranger_. I pucker my lips and shift.

"I-" My voice cracks slightly, and I clear my throat, noticing the rays of light against the carpeted floor. "I turned out to...to be the one that made him crash. We-we were fighting for the wheel, and I _jerked_ it, and-"

I don't finish, the sentence left sharp and prickly in the air. She doesn't say anything, or force me to continue, but that may only be because she knows the ending.

"So you believe yourself to be the cause of your father's death?" Her fingers tap against the notebook, and I wonder offhandedly when she got her fingernails painted.

"I know I am," I state simply. I think the answer should speak for itself, but she still looks perplexed. "Mum said he had been drinking more lately; with that knowledge, I could've asked him about it, helped him."

"Yet...," I drawl, wishing I had a glass of water; my throat feels so dry. "I was a _coward_ , and I let his habit continue, and now, _he's dead because of it_."

She just stares at me for a moment before saying,"But he could've stopped at any moment, or not have driven while being drunk, or asked for help. There are many variables and factors to situations like this."

My head shakes on its own accord, back and forth in an expression of disagreement, and I tip my head back and laugh. It's gentle and quiet and bubbly and _practically hysterical_ , but Ella just continues to look at me.

"No; it was _me_. It's always me, with Harry, and Ma, and now Da." I glance at the ceiling.

"Always me..."

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 **A/N: I'd really appreciate any feedback, criticism, suggestions, questions, anything, honestly.**


	9. My Redbeard For Your Gladstone

**A/N: I just want to sincerly thank every person who has read this story thus far. Thanks for all of your wonderful reviews, and I'm grateful for all of your follows and favorites. I'm so glad that so many people enjoy this story.**

* * *

"Oh, no," I sigh, glowering over my violin. Mycroft and Lestrade are exiting his(their?) black limousine and scampering to 221's front door with a cage in their hands. I already know what they've got, and I'm tempted to lock my door and miserably play the violin until they've gone mad and taken the goddamned dog away. I don't need a dog; _no one can replace Redbeard._

Before I can act on my desire, my brother and brother-in-law are standing beside the doorway, the canine whimpering in the cage, probably from lack of light.

"Oh, _joy_! What a pleasant surprise of my dear brother, his husband, and their newly acquired canine companion to visit me," I exclaim, laying the sarcasm on thick. I glance to the dog's muzzle, but I don't see any Redbeard there.

"Do try and act civil at least, brother dear. We wouldn't want Mummy to get involved, now would we?" he simpers, gesturing afterwards to the cage. "All me and Greg would like to do is offer you a present."

I scoff before I can rein in my emotions. "This mutt?" I snort, bringing the bow of my violin sharply over its strings(causing my 'visitors' to flinch). "He'll be more of a nuisance then a companion; he'll trample my papers, knock over my experiments! I am _not_ risking my violin being mutilated!" Redbeard actually did all those things, but I don't want this dog as a reminder.

"Sherlock, calm down," Lestrade chimes, showing the palms of his hands in a sort of submissive honesty. "We just really think you could use some company, is all."

"And why is that?" I growl. "Why do I allegedly need company?" Scrubbing a hand over his face, the DI sighs in a way that oddly reminds me of Mycroft; I guess they're rubbing off on each other.

"Because, brother dear," Mycroft cuts in,"a quarter of the time, you're sulking. Another quarter, you're complaining about boredom. The third quarter is you forgeting to eat or drink. The last quarter is your insults and experiments causing a ruckus."

"Your point being?" I reply petulantly, placing my violin on my chair. Crossing my arms and turning my nose up, I glare down at the DI, using my height to my advantage. Lestrade puffs up his cheeks and huffs before stepping closer, which is decidedly not a good thing.

"You're keeping the 'mutt', as you call him, and that's final," he says calmly, gesticulating at the dog. I narrow my eyes, raking my gaze over the cage before studying Lestrade's face, wrinkled in anger; he doesn't understand.

"What are you, the _mother hen_?" I scowl, my fists clenching at his resounding resolve not to respond, or even acknowledge, my jab at him. I want to scream; I don't need another Redbeard. _I've already experienced this once before._

"If you insist on calling me that, then yes, I am," he confirms, letting his arms fall to his sides. I feel the need to pull at my hair as Mycroft silently smirks at Lestrade's assertiveness, usually nonexistent.

Stubbornly, I just lift my chin and look out the window, wishing I could destroy their choice of transport with my mind. I can practically hear the smirk melting off of my brother's face as it sounds like he roughly places the cage on the floor. _No_.

"You're taking him," he huffs, and I can hear him opening the latch. "And that's final," he continues as I hear nails click against the hardwood. My lips form a thin frown as the canine nips at my heels as I try idly to kick him away.

"Hey!" I bark, pushing away from his slobbering mouth; _he can't do this. Only Redbeard was allowed_.

"Aw, have a heart, Sherlock; he just wants to play," the DI guffaws, Mycroft placing a hand over his shoulder. As I ardently try to escape the dog's path, I spot the two of them darting out of the door, and I hear the subsequent clack of their shoes as they descend the staircase.

"Oh, you arseholes!" I call incredulously, the canine still yapping beneath my legs, trying to pull on my trousers. I swiftly lift him up, keeping him away from my body as he continues trying to nip and bite. Redbeard was like this as a puppy.

"Listen here, you _mutt_ ," I hiss, glaring directly at him. He seems to shy away from my eyes, ears flattening against his head, but he doesn't back down completely. "If you're to stay in my care, there are to be a few rules, understand?"

 **Number 1:** _Don't replace Redbeard_.

The puppy cocks his head, almost awaiting the subsequent list of rules. "Firstly, no chewing any of my things, and I promise I'll get something suitable for you to chew on in return." His ears seem to perk up at the prospect of a chew toy; I grimace. _Stop, you mutt_.

"Second," I state, plopping onto the couch after placing him on the floor. "No bodily functions inside the house; those are reserved for when I must walk you." Abruptly, he tries leaping into my lap, just like Red- _stop, brain._

"Thirdly, no barking unless it is absolutely necessary, such as if you are alerting me of oncoming defecation or the need for sustenance." He yips again, his stubby tail wagging back and forth.

"Overall, just don't mess with anything unless told otherwise." His brown eyes peer up at me, and it almost looks like he's understood everything I've said. His front paws leave my lap and he sits obediently on the floor, continuing to merely look at me.

I'm grateful for his silence, but I'm not so grateful for my lack of supplies. "I'll need to go out; ah, dull!" I quickly ascend and go to grab my coat, the dog trailing behind. "I need bowls, food, a collar, a leash, possibly a bed..."

Suddenly, I remember the canine is behind me; I can't just leave and expect him not to ruin anything. And somehow, I've gotten so caught up in items that I've forgotten to even give him a name.

 _It can't be Redbeard; that name is reserved_ , my mind chimes in.

"Alright," I sigh, clapping my hands together. "Mrs. Hudson will have to watch you, and...I'll have to figure out a name later," I assert, wrapping my scarf around my neck.

Hastily grabbing my mobile from the coffee table, I stuff it into my pocket before wrenching open the door and calling back,"I'll be back soon...mutt," and taking the stairs two at a time.

"Mrs. Hudson!?" I shout, her appearing outside her door as I come to the final step. She looks slightly perplexed and concerned as I stride to the front door.

"Would you please look after my...pet?" I ask, opening the door and quickly trotting out with an exclamation of,"Much obliged," without her even responding. I tread the sidewalk, exasperated as I pull out my mobile with a quiet mutter.

 _Location of the least expensive pet store within a mile of 221B?-SH_

* * *

"Ah, _Gladstone_!" I exclaim, pushing off of my chair, laptop cradled in my arms. The canine shifts in his position at my feet, tilting his head to look curiously up at my grinning face. "That's going to be your name!" I've taken 'Blackbeard' into consideration, but it reminds me too much of Redbeard, and I don't want that.

"Lestrade is always making fun of my lack of political knowledge and how I don't know the current prime minister," I explain, squinting slightly at the computer screen. "But now, with your name, I can rub in his face that I know at least one well known one..."

"William Ewart Gladstone," I confirm, glancing at the bulldog's cocked head. I smile at him genuinely, despite my previous exclamations of annoyance and dislike; I only yelled because of-well, _the-dog-who-shall-not-be-named._

Gladstone barks in what sounds like happiness, pawing at my legs and wiggling his stub of a tail. His slobbery mouth nips at my fresh trousers, and I lightly scold him before settling into my chair and tentatively calling him into my lap. He leaps up, nuzzling his head into the crook of my arm, and then he lays, curled in my lap.

I feel the soft tremor of his heart, listening to his heavy breaths as my fingertips rub circles into his splotched fur. He licks my limp hand, and I smile.

This isn't as painful as I thought it would be.

* * *

"Dear, there's a woman at the door for you!"

I startle from my chair, squinting at the light cascading through the window and shedding on my lap. Gladstone is still there, cuddled up against my chest, and I suddenly realize I fell asleep. I glance at my watch: 5:26 PM. I actually stayed asleep for almost 2 hours; _that's a first_.

Surprisingly, Gladstone remains asleep despite Mrs. Hudson's shout. Trying not to startle him, I place him by my feet and step over him softly as I get up; it's probably better for both of us that he doesn't wake up just yet.

"Coming," I call back, opening the door and starting down the staircase. I see Mrs. Hudson and wave dismissively for her to return to her flat, and she waves back in greeting before disappearing as I round the stairs. I stride to the entrance, opening it to the sight of Mycroft's...well, PA(?).

"Ah, Anneliese. Or what's your current name?" I ask casually, studying the compressed bag of materials held under her arm. My eyes shift back to her face to see a purely professional smile on her lips.

"Anthea, actually," she answers simply, for once not tapping out a message on her phone. "Your brother requested that I personally drop this off for you," she continues, pushing the package towards my chest. I examine the parcel before taking it in my hands as she says,"You may already know what it is."

"I must be off, though," she concedes, stepping down from the door. Her fingers find the screen of her phone again as she says a last half-hearted goodbye and starts back to Mycroft's posh limousine. I watch her go for a moment before swinging the door shut and rushing up the steps. Practically wrenching my door open, I bolt through the doorway.

Gladstone startles, and I inwardly scold myself for forgetting his presence before striding to the kitchen and placing the package on the table. I carefully move some of my intruding experiments to the counter before pulling out a chair and sitting before the parcel.

 _Mycroft almost never sends me purely materialistic items; he only usually sends evidence, and rarely at that. Yet this is important enough to be brought directly instead of mailed. He wanted it here quickly, and it must be an important item._

I prod the bundle, hearing the characteristic crinkle of clothing intact.

 _A gift? He rarely sends gifts, so this has to be materialistic compensation for something._

Gladstone abruptly whimpers beside me, and without glancing at him I know what this present is for.

 _He wants to compensate for giving me something I didn't want by giving me something I do want; or should want._

My fingers find the folds and tear them open, eagerly wrenching open the parcel to see the exquisitely made black fabric of some article of clothing. I dig my hands into the wrapping, unearthing the article and letting it unfurl as I stand up with it in my hands.

"Hey," I snap, pulling the item away before Gladstone can tear it. He stares innocently up at me, but I'm not fooled as I slowly look at the present, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.

"A coat?" I snort, laying it against my chest; _perfect fit._ The fine fabric is pleasant against my fingers, rough and solid, yet comforting. I shimmy into it, leaving it unbuttoned as I twirl around in place, feeling the end billow dramatically. Gladstone nearly catches it between his teeth, but I restrain him with one hand and pull the coat up with my other.

Something else is inside the package, so I hull it out, seeing rich gray colored fabric; a scarf. I bend over to spot another discolored patch and reach my hand in to pull out a black pair of gloves; leather, going by the texture. For a minute, I just stare at them, and then I realize that I actually _like_ them.

 _God damnit, Mycroft's plans never fail to frustrate me._

Chuffed, I snatch my mobile off the table, uncharacteristically still for a moment before returning to my thoughts.

 _You think some silly coat and accesories are suitable recompense for giving me a dog?-SH_

 ** _There are many things one could say are wrong with that sentence. Most people would be thankful for a free pet. Getting clothing is just an added bonus.-MH_**

 _Well I am not most people.-SH_

 ** _A fact I am constantly made aware of.-MH_**

 ** _Going by the acquired footage, that 'mutt' is growing on you, quite exponentially, in fact. Gladstone, is it?-MH_**

 _That is besides the point.-SH_

 ** _Actually, it is rather the point. You might have minded then, but you don't mind the dog now, do you, Sherlock?-MH_**

I glare at the font, suddenly annoyed at it for forming such frustratingly true sentences at my brother's insistence. Next thing I know, my BlackBerry has been flung across the room, and apparently I can't catch a break because the characteristic message indicator still chimes.

I squint at the text from my position at the table, and I wish the phone could've just smashed and it would have been done with.

 _ **Don't think I didn't see you throw that, Sherlock.-MH**_

* * *

 **A/N: Any feedback, criticism, questions, suggestions, or help are welcome. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and can just bear with me a little longer until Sherlock and John meet.**


	10. The Climax

**A/N: Consider this a present for the long wait. _It's_ early.**

* * *

"John?"

I turn slightly, registering something vaguely familiar about the voice.

"John Watson!"

Now it sounds resolved, and I rotate completely to see a man waving me down. Again, there is something familiar about him as he smiles, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford," he says, supplying a name to his face; I remember it a little. "We were at Bart's together," he confirms, holding out his hand happily, and I suddenly remember when we could've been considered 2 normal kids. _Not anymore._

"Oh," escapes my lips because what should I really say? "Hi." It's all I can come up with as I take his hand in mine, giving a light squeeze before dropping it to my side.

"I heard you were in Afghanistan getting shot at." His eyebrows knit together as he continues,"What happened?"

My fingers flex at my side ever so slightly. I glance around, shifting my legs to adjust my cane as I shake my head faintly. "I got shot," I admit, trying to smile; it feels more like a grimace.

His eyes train on my cane for a moment before they return to my face, and he smiles, albeit hesitant. He remains silent as I glance around the park, hearing the chirp of happy birds and seeing the white light of our sun blotted out by the clouds.

"Coffee?" I turn back to him at the offer, examining the genuine crinkles around his eyes; _he really wants me to accept._

I just nod, to which he grins and then beckons me to follow along beside him.

"I know this excellent coffee shop just around the corner-"

* * *

 _I went from not remembering Mike, to drinking coffee with him, to following him to this promise of a flatmate_. _Life is strange, isn't it?_

Mike continues to walk down the corridor, and I follow closely behind, examining signs and instruments hanging along the walls. My shoes make a clunky tapping noise against the blinding white tiles, but his are even louder ahead of mine, heavily echoing inside the hallway as he finally brings me to a door.

"Now, I wouldn't suggest you meet him if I didn't think you could handle it, but I just want to warn you that he might- well, _probably_ \- will be an arse," he explains as I sidle up beside him. He gives me a small smile and looks encouraging as he presses the double doors open and begins to cross the room.

I'm left in his wake, and I rake my eyes over the room to stall for all this buildup. _If he's an arse, than why would I want to be flatmates with him, anyway?_

Finally, I look to the figure against the countertop, leaning over a microscope, and the first thing my brain supplies is _malnourished_. The man's body is so slender, but at the same time lean, and I would say that he just needs someone to make him eat more and he'll be fine.

Despite his weight, his height makes him look gangly, and his skin looks very white in this lighting. His clothing is obviously expensive, probably tailored to fit his form and hug his body perfectly.

I would even go so far as to say he is _handsome_ , but it is a different sort of attractiveness; I'm not sure he's the definition of an attractive man because people have called me attractive, and neither of us seem very similar.

He looks oddly stoic, and he startles me as his eyes flash my way, curious, scrutinizing. The man's eyes then train on Mike, to which my friend smiles politely; he looks amused.

"Mike, what shade does this liquid look to you?" His velvety voice throws me off, but it isn't unpleasant; it's heavenly smooth and resonating. "This morning you said it was clear."

Mike rounds the counter and stands beside him, peering over his glasses. The handsome man glances at me again as Mike looks. "Looks yellow to me," he answers. He shrugs as he continues,"What've you been up to?" I'd like to know as well.

"Hmm, yellow." He sounds like he rolls it around in his mouth. "Should've known because of the shade and characteristics, but thank you for the confirmation."

 _He hasn't found his soulmate_ , I observe. I find my eyes lowering to his wrist, but his arms are buried in a fine coat and his wrists covered by a dark fabric. It's oddly disappointing.

I feel the man's eyes on me again as I look back up, him scrutinizing my cane and leg. A thoughtful hum falls from his lips as he goes back to his notepad and writes something down.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."

His head snaps up, and I almost jump at the precise gaze he holds with me, something similar to terror in his eyes. I feel an almost instinctual urge to ask what's wrong, to help, but I figure it isn't my place to ask when I barely know him.

Abruptly, the fear looks subdued and he slowly brings his eyes back to the petri dish before heaving out a heavy sigh. His face screams calm, collected, but it seems...forced somehow as his eyebrows knit together and I discern a tremor in his hand.

Suddenly, there's a ping from my pocket, and I wrench out my shabby BlackBerry to see a text notification labeled ' _Harry_ '. Of course she decides to message me right now, when I'm actually interested in getting to know someone.

"Sorry," I apologize. It's more out of habit, but the man whose name I still don't know just nods absently and continues staring. It's slightly unnerving, but I'm not deterred as I punch in the buttons of my keypad.

"What's your sibling after, Harry, yes? The issue is money, isn't it?" he inquires, cocking his head like a cunning animal. His eyes peek down at my mouth oddly, and it's only then that I realize my jaw has literally dropped; I try to compose myself.

"How did you-?" I look to Mike, words dying in my throat and sticking to the back. "You told him about me?" I'm trying to understand because no normal person has ever done this or would ever attempt to.

"Not a word," my friend murmurs, and he still has that smirk mixed between smug and amused. My head shakes on its own accord, rotating back to face this strange man that could tell all of that by a few glances and slight observations.

The lean man looks less subdued as he walks forward almost eagerly, taking my mobile in hand. "I can tell your brother's drinking habits and sham marriage from this phone," he states, then gesturing to me, continues,"as well as I can tell you're an army doctor from your demeanor and tan."

I usually don't gape like a fish out of water, but I can confirm unwaveringly that I know I am right this instant. How could I not? _He's brilliant! It's amazing!_

"By the way, is it Afghanistan or Iraq? The tanline doesn't say everything." He smiles broadly, but it doesn't seem to reach his eyes all the way; there's only a pit of feeling there. It seems to morph, though, as his eyes glance to me again. The modicum of feeling suddenly looks larger, but only for a second before it's gone.

"Afghanistan," I say, breathless, shifting on my cane under his gaze. His eyes seem pleased as they crinkle at the corners, and his smile looks genuine this time, but in pride and not friendliness.

Then, the smile changes again, and it looks warm this time, like someone's just thawed his face. I'm not sure what warrants the change in expression, but I'm glad for it; his smile is beautiful, which is something I usually don't notice about mouths. I _do_ make exceptions.

"Wow," I breathe, and the gangly man's eyes bore through me. "That was... _fantastic_..." Other words come to mind, filling the spaces in my head, but it would be difficult to even categorize the level of...adoration, I suppose, that I hold for his level of observation.

He looks almost pleasantly surprised, and the kernel of warmth blooms a little again. I feel glad that my praise can make someone smile like that. _So far, Mike's warning of him being an ass seems unfounded._

"I also know that you're here as a potential flatmate," he explains, turning on his heel and starting back to his microscope. He takes my phone with him, typing something out that I assume is probably just his number. "So, onto a question or two."

"How do you feel about the violin? Will barking bother you?" he says, not even looking up from my phone as he continues to type away. He swivels around suddenly and throws me the phone, which I barely see in time. "There's bound to be a bit of it."

"I don't particularly mind either; the violin sounds lovely," I respond honestly, warming comfortably at his approving look. "That's if you can even play well." My jab gets a grunt of acknowledgement, but little else.

"Do you make good tea?" I give him a side-long glance, but he just shrugs. "Just a general, curious question. I can't deduce everything." He turns again to the microscope.

"I suppose I do." My fingers clench around the cane, tapping it against the tiles. I'm not even sure why this stranger would even bother with a crippled sod like me.

Abruptly, there's a ding from his pocket and he wrenches his phone out. His astouding eyes widen at the probable text message as he anxiously types out a response and practically jogs to the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" I ask, disappointed as he barely gives me a second glance. "I don't have your address or name, yet." The man seems to catch himself as he turns back around and gives me a falsely apologetic smile. _This text must be important._

"Sorry, gotta dash; I think I forget to feed my dog this morning." A calculated lie, and an unbelievable one at that. "The address is 221B Baker Street, and the name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah, no, no, _no_ ," I tisk, pulling on his arm, to which he levels me with an almost glare. "I would like to know a bit about you first, since you almost knew my whole life in a glance."

"Tomorrow, please." He suddenly sounds pleading, his pretty eyes full of fear again, and dread, and I can't help but let him leave. My grip slackens and he takes the invitation to leave almost immediately, rushing out of the double doors as a meek looking woman carries coffee this way. She looks startled.

I turn to Mike, some silent inquiry in the contortion of my face as he nods his head at me, looking quite satisfied with himself. "Is he always so... _eccentric_?"

"You wouldn't believe." He shakes his head ever the slightest, but his smile looks fond. "But actually, I've never seen him quite like that..."

"What do you mean?" I find myself asking, looking at the stunned expression on the girl's face, left in Sherlock's wake. Mike makes a choked snort as I turn back around to face him.

"I said he'd be an ass, and he usually is, but he proved me wrong. He was _nice_. Wonder why." He shrugs his shoulders again, adjusting his glasses as he goes to the door to greet the still shocked young girl.

As he apologizes for Sherlock's behavior, my mind settles on the fact that his name isn't William. I really thought we had something, but now I know his name, and although it sounds nice in my mouth, it _isn't_ William. _I really thought I felt something._

I look again down the hall before starting out and half-heartedly waving goodbye to Mike, to which he waves back, and nodding at the woman.

Disappointed, I exit Bart's and try fitfully to hail a cab. The handsome man named Sherlock isn't my William; it hasn't really sunk in yet.

 _Sherlock Holmes..._

 _He still sounds interesting._

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, or read this story. It's been a pleasure to write so far, and I hope I can say the same by the end. Any questions, criticism, suggestions, or feedback is happily welcome.**


	11. Sex Doesn't(lie) Alarm Me

Earlier was...terrifying comes to mind first. This John Watson struck an unfamiliar cord in me almost immediately, intriguing and perplexing me all at once. I felt something deep in my stomach at the word fantastic, a warmth in my stomach that I thought at first was unpleasant but soon realized was anything but.

I glance to the skull atop the fireplace mantle, hollow eye sockets peering back at me. It may just be a figment of my own imagination, but it's like he's waggling his nonexistent eyebrows; he wants me to talk about it.

I oblige almost immediately, lunging from my armchair and swiftly pulling Skully to rest against my thigh. His silence always pulls something deep out of me, probably because I know he can't mock me. He's just an object, but he's better than people.

"He might just be my soulmate, Skully," I whisper, and I, myself, haven't even come to terms with that little tidbit of information yet. I hadn't meant to freeze at his first name, but I did, and I know just how far too expressive my face can be when unchecked.

I spin the skull in my hands, expecting to feel happier about this whole soulmate thing. Frankly, though, I'm terrified of John Watson and what he might be. What if it turns out he isn't my soulmate? What if I start expecting colors that never come and it turns out this is just a fluke?

I need to sigh to keep my breathing relatively normal, now, thinking too deeply into this. Maybe I should tell Mycroft to come over? I scowl at my own train of thought, disgusted at myself for even suggesting appearing so vulnerable in front of my brother; he's a bastard.

"He's...interesting, praising my work where others have endlessly insulted me. His facial expression reminded me of one of Gladstone's," I explain, trailing my fingers over Skully's cranium. Gladstone cocks his head at me from his place by the fire.

"His face looked like Glads when I gave him a special treat from out of town for no reason, except because I thought he would appreciate it." The analogy startles even me, and the way I smile when I say it is slightly disconcerting; I need to shake John Watson. I'm already getting too attached.

"Sex is terrifying," I admit softly. Mycroft tells me I talk in a small voice every time something sexual is brought up. He's probably right on that account. My experiences have always been...less than pleasant, but it's easy enough to ignore when I'm not thinking about it.

If we were soulmates, would John expect a more physical aspect of our relationship, or would he feel uncomfortable with a man? Would we both ignore and never act on it? Does he not like getting attached? Would he prefer just the benefits of coitus and nothing more? Is he actually like everyone else who took from me and gave me nothing back?

A ping from my pocket disrupts my thoughts, calming my heavy breathing the slightest bit as I pull my mobile out; a text from Mycroft. What the hell does he want, and why is he always meddling?

Someone has you flustered. You're panicing. What is it?-MH

None of your business, now shove off.-SH

Now don't be like that, brother dear. I'm only trying to help.-MH

I am not a child in need of coddling or a hand to hold, so kindly sod off.-SH

Fine, but you should expect new cameras in 221B within the week.-MH

And you should expect me to destroy them the first day I find them.-SH

Ah, what would Mummy say? Disobeying your older brother? Treacherous.-MH

You are overly dramatic, and I'm done talking to you.-SH

I slide my phone closed with a click, and for some reason the sound sets me off. I hurl the BlackBerry across the room, and Gladstone almost seems scolding while Skully just looks amused in my mind.

The phone sounds with another notification, and I find my anger suddenly bubbling out of control until Gladstone licks my palm. I sneer at him, but he continues the motion until I wrench my hand away and bolt up from the chair; he can't distract me from the matter at hand.

"I wouldn't be able to offer anything physical to him," I stutter, stalking across the room. "Maybe a kiss or a touch; ugh, I don't even think I have the capacity tocuddle!" I mutter angrily, swiftly pulling my violin to my chest. I scratch out a grating note before plopping down again.

"Would he force it on me?" I shake my head rapidly, glancing sideways at the skull still on my chair. "No, no, John seems nice," I breathe, carding a hand through my hair. "But maybe he's demanding, or, or overly jealous? Lustful?"

I'm babbling. In vain, I rub circles into my head that are meant to be soothing. My chest feels tight, and I scratch fitfully at it.

"Maybe sex would be a punishment," I hiccup, my eyes stinging with something. My skin feels clammy; not a pleasant feeling. "Could we not just sit and talk? Would he not let me kiss him unless he wanted it?"

"Would I have to...," my voice trails off, meek and gentle, and it's only now that I realize I've been shaking. I don't want anything in my mouth, and I just want to gag to wash the nastiness away. "He wouldn't make me..." I want to vomit.

I weeze a little, tamping down my jittery leg, gripping the chair just a little too tightly. The fabric is scratchy against my palms. My sickly hands stick to it.

"Would he..." My words are no longer words, just incoherent sounds, and now my breath is hitching and my heart hurts and my throat feels constricted. I need water, or something, and I feel choked and my eyes are stinging still.

Abruptly, a sob catches in my throat, and now I'm choking on my breath and tears. I quickly swivel to face the window, letting out a shaky puff of air and splaying a hand over my heart; it's beating too hard.

"Sherlock."

It's Mycroft. He's opposite me, ridiculous umbrella still in hand. He needs to hurry before I try to run. Running would help, but no one would-

"Hold on, just breathe," he supplies, gripping my arm. I jerk away, and I don't want to, but I'm wound up and-

"How many stairs are there leading up to 221B?" Mycroft's voice cuts in; he sounds breathless, like he's just run a marathon to get here. I cling to the chair cushion; maybe he has.

"17," I say instantly, trying to rein in my breath. Somehow, he manages to inch his hand up my back.

"What types of limbs are in the fridge?" Even when he tries to help, it sounds like prying, like he's a babysitter; it's familiar, though.

"Thumbs and toes," I respond, pulling at the seam of the chair, still pushing into Mycroft; he won't get up. He's making my chest tight, like a coil ready to be sprung.

"What is my name?" He gestures to himself, and I shift uncomfortably when his elbow brushes against mine.

"Mycroft," I state, and he seems convinced enough to back off a little. He looks worried still, but I just focus on breathing instead. Right now, breathing isn't boring, but vital.

"That's right, just keep breathing," he encourages, and he doesn't know how comforting his voice sounds right now. It's like being in a desert andfinally finding water that isn't a mirage.

"Calm down," he cooes(Mycroft, cooing?!), and he smoothes his hand over my back, shifting the sallows of my shirt. "Everything is fine..." An utter lie.

I let out a large breath, one almost too big for my own chest, but it helps, and I actually relax into the chair. My brother slips his hand away, placing it in his lap, but still tries to placate me with arbitrary, empty statements.

"Better?" he asks, and I take a moment to nod 'yes'. He actually looks relieved, and his almost always pinched face relaxes into something more natural. We sit for a moment, me still trying to catch my breath and him watching over me, before he breaks the silence.

"Panic attack," he informs simply; I should've known. The symptoms were all present, but I was too worked up to see them. "You said something about a John? Who is that?"

Heaving another sigh, my heart beating at a less alarming rate, I try,"An acquaintance of mine." Mycroft gives me an admonishing look, and I know I've displeased him, but when do I not?

"He's more than that, hence how we got into the position we are currently in." His eyes soften slightly then as he says,"Now tell me, really, who is he? Will he hurt you?"

There are times I believe Mycroft doesn't love me, but now is not one of those times. The way his mouth curls on the word hurt and the intensity of his eyes is caring in a way reserved only for things he truly cares about. Mycroft caring is more unsettling than comforting, right now.

"No, he's rather nice," I admit, going for honesty. "It's just-"

"I know," he interrupts, pointing slightly to my wrist. "But he may not be the one, Sherlock, and I'm sure if he is, he won't be-can't be-any of the things you said."

"Maybe so, Mycroft, but the fact still remains that he will leave like the rest, soulmate or not. They always do," I intone dejectedly, and Mycroft's eyes harden with something close to understanding. He pivots to look out the window, taking a clump of the chair's arm in hand, pulling, worrying at the fabric.

He exhales a long, exhausted breath. "What am I to do with you, brother dear?" 


	12. Flatmates It Is

**A/N: I'm really sorry I haven't updated in so long, but thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed. I've just been having a lot of changes in my life lately, and so haven't had much time to write anything recently. Anyways, I hope you all like this chapter. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it.**

* * *

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," I say, but I doubt I need to cling to such formalities when he's already told me my whole life story. He flashes a short, small smile as I knock on the door labeled 221B.

"Sherlock, please," he requests, holding out a gloved hand. I shake it firmly, feeling strangely more at ease with him than I felt with my fellow soldiers in Afghanistan. The pleasant warmth disperses as he pulls his hand away all too quickly.

Trying to fill the silence, I fumble for the right words. "So...what breed of dog do you have?" I try, glancing at his faraway eyes.

"Hmm," he hums, almost as if he's lost himself, but then he's back with a glint to his eyes. "English bulldog," he responds, and I catch him rubbing his hands down his well-tailored trousers, almost nervously. _Weird_.

"Wow." I smile slightly, squinting at the sunlight that's rare in London. "I always wanted a bulldog when I was little. What's his name? Or _her_ name," I add.

"Gladstone," he responds with an odd fondness in his voice. Before I can question it, he continues,"Named after William Ewart Gladstone, an old prime minister."

Smiling, I hum,"I like it." I've only known Sherlock for a time, but it sounds so incredibly... _Sherlockian_. "How'd you come up with that?" I ask, leaning against the door frame.

"One Detective Inspector, who would also be my brother-in-law," he informs, checking his watch, seemingly irritated by the lack of answer from the building. I'm perplexed by his answer, which really doesn't constitute as an answer, but shake it off and continue.

"So you have a sister?" I gather, rubbing at my hand. Holding a cane everyday really messes with your palms.

He cracks a wry smile, outwardly amused at some thought foreign to me before he chuckles,"No, a brother. But thank you for the mental image of Mycroft in a dress and cooking with a frilly apron."

His bluntness is refreshing and startling as I gawk. But before I can sputter something embarrassingly stupid like " _A brother?_ " or " _Who the hell names their child Mycroft?_ ", an elderly woman appears inside the now open doorway.

"Ah, Sherlock," she greets gently. I find myself faintly surprised as Sherlock actually hugs her when she beckons him. "Where've you been? And who's this?"

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson." The lady-Mrs. Hudson-glances...sadly at Sherlock? Knowingly? Hopefully? But then the look is gone, and she turns to me with such a genuine, easy smile. I can't help but appreciate it.

"Hello, come in, come in," she ushers, gesturing to the stairs with a flourish. Sherlock practically rushes in, and I try desperately to catch up to him, but damn his long legs. He breaks through the doorway at the top of the staircase as I follow at half the speed.

I take in the absolute clutter burying the furniture, piled almost every where. Smoothing my hand over the desk with stacked files, it seems that no one has dusted in a while. Otherwise, looking at the kitchen and the sitting room, it seems rather cozy, _homey_ even, and affordable with a flatshare.

"Where's your dog?" I suddenly realize that I haven't seen him any where, and even though the flat is untidy with documents, there's no way he could possibly be hidden beneath it all.

Sherlock pivots to look into the kitchen, gaze sweeping over the linoleum tiles before shifting to the living room. He almost looks frantic as he stumbles through the papers, relocating some and looking beneath others, which, to me at least, is quite a laughable attempt at trying to find his pet.

"Oh, are you looking for Glads, dear?" I turn to see Mrs. Hudson sauntering so calmly through the doorway that she has to be used to Sherlock's antics. Carrying a tray of tea and setting it down on the kitchen table, she informs,"I put him in your bedroom. He was running amok, trappling all over your papers, trying to find his chew toy, I assume, amongst all this clutter. You really need to-"

"Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he chimes impatiently, passing me to presumably let the dog out of his room.

As Sherlock retrieves Gladstone, I take a moment to survey the flat again, examining the patterned wallpaper and rug, wondering about the beakers of oddly colored (what look to be) acids lined up on the kitchen table beside the mugs of tea. I grimace at seeing an actual human skull residing on the fireplace mantle.

I hear quite a commotion coming from down the hall, nails clicking against the floor and laughs permeating the walls of the kitchen. The landlady hands me a mug, which I thank her profusely for; the drink is such a life saver, and I need a stress reliever, currently.

"If you were wondering," Mrs. Hudson mutters past her tea,"there's a second bedroom upstairs, if you boys'll be needing two rooms." I almost choke on my tea, splaying a restraining hand over my chest.

Incredulously, I cough,"Of _course_ we will. Why _wouldn't_ we?" I guess old habits die hard because I still defend myself as not being gay just as vehemently as I did when I was a teenager. Mrs. Hudson just looks confused, though, and sad.

"Oh," she breathes, suddenly looking very awkward. "It's just that Sherlock's soul-" She freezes, the epitome of horror as she shakes her head and gingerly takes another sip of her tea.

"What do you mean-"

"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind getting milk for my latest experiment?" Sherlock's deep baritone interrupts. I see Gladstone clumsily biting at his heels as I turn around.

"Oh, ah, yes, dear. I'll go now, if you don't mind, Dr. Watson." It's more of a statement then a question as she practically scampers out of the room, closing the flat door as the dog yaps at her exit.

"She and I will have to have a bit of a chat later," he grumbles as I try to dismiss how obviously disgruntled he is, and tend to the bulldog prancing around my chair. Smiling at his stubby, wagging tail, I scratch circles under his belly, laughing at the way he shakes his head afterwards.

"So, what do you think of the flat?" I hear the detective ask from behind me. His voice holds an unbridled agitation, very different from the way he sounded when we talked about Gladstone outside.

"Well, it could be very nice, as soon as we tidy up a bit...," I trail off, observing the way his expression morphs from irritated to pleasantly surprised to slightly nervous.

"Oh, well," he mumbles, striding to his desk and sweeping a stack of papers into his arms,"I can just move all this and-" He fumbles to stab a knife into the fireplace mantle, securing a pile of documents. Rushing to gather some things off of the floor, I see him suddenly freeze, then bolt towards the window.

"Sherlock?" It's almost like talking to a wall, his face incredibly blank for a moment as I walk behind him to see a long black car pulled up to the curb.

"A fourth, there's been a fourth," the detective exclaims lowly, turning around at the sound of footsteps clamoring up the staircase. Panting in the doorway is a man with gray hair, almost looking desperate as he stumbles to look into the room.

"You wouldn't come if it wasn't different," Sherlock says, obviously well-acquainted with the bloke. The breathless man clutches at his chest before straightening against the wall.

"You know they've never left notes," he states, eyes shifting towards me. "But this one did." Sherlock folds his arms, an odd hint of excitement in his eyes. "At Lauriston Gardens; will you come?"

I stare at my almost-flatmate, wondering at the blank expression on his face, what he's thinking, why he's hesitating. Abruptly, he whips his head around to stare out the window, grimacing slightly.

"Anderson's on forensics, isn't he?" he snarls. The man that I presume is with the police nods his head hesitantly before Sherlock growls,"Anderson won't _work_ with me, and I _need_ an assistant!"

"Will you come?" the gray-haired man repeats, looking nervous. Sherlock goes silent beside me again, looking like a sulky child, much to my amusement, before giving a whispered groan.

"Not with you and my brother dear," he scowls, looking back out the window. "I'll be in a cab behind you." The man that I can now only guess is the Detective Inspector nods again, throwing me one last curious glance before setting off down the stairs. We watch him as he goes, and then, Sherlock startles me so badly that I almost jump.

" _Brilliant_!" he scrambles to say, twirling around like a right loon, invading my personal space as he continues,"Oh, it's Christmas!" With a lopsided grin, he pulls at the lapels of my jacket incessantly.

"Wait, what are you doing?" I question, placing my hands over his. He settles down slightly at the contact, pulling his hands off of me with a much more subdued smile.

"You were a doctor, an army doctor, and I assume a good one," he says, cocking his head in a faint inquiry. I examine the intensity of his eyes for a moment, wondering how I can learn so much about them without any color. I nod.

"Yes," I inform, stepping closer to the body heat that he emanates. " _Very_ good," I assure, looking intently at his approving face, quietly liking the way I have to look up to meet his gaze. He flashes another smile that reaches the corners of his eyes.

"Seen a lot of violent deaths?" he continues, leaning in further, practically towering over my small frame. _This is the first time I've every liked being short._

"Yes, yeah," I stammer, needing to look away from his eyes to regain some of my composure. He waits as I build up enough strength to nod again. "Enough for a lifetime..."

"What to see some more?" Before I can filter what leaves my mouth, my lips are already forming words that are so authentic that they startle me.

"Oh, _God_ , yes..."

* * *

 **A/N: The dialogue in this was hard to come up with because I didn't want it to be completely the same as the show, but I wanted it to be similar enough still to not change the course of A Study in Pink.**


	13. Dreadfully Amazing

**A response to Guest on Chapter 12: I'm glad it was pretty good, but I'm sorry that it felt too similar to ca** **non for you. This is most likely the only other chapter that will contain canon cases or dialogue. I hope this update and the following original ones will make up for the lull in creativity.**

* * *

"I hope you don't mind," a voice chimes. My mind registers it as the cabbie's. "The keys were right in your coat, and you _did_ give me your address."

Trying to steady myself, I can't even seem to lift my head up. My knees suddenly buckle and I keel over on the carpet, holding in the sick building in my throat. I can feel the foreboding presence of him behind me, his shadow falling over my back.

"I figured, you know, people like to die at home, and I'm sure your fan will just _love_ this little show," he says, the smirk evident in his tone. Groggily, I turn my head to see him standing there like you'd stand waiting for the tube: hands in your pockets, expression blank.

"I'm surprised you even made it this long, though," he comments. "You were only out for ten minutes." I can hear his smile again. "I'm impressed."

"But you're still weak from the drugs." I feel the shift of his weight as he steps closer, and a jolt of fear shoots through me. It's futile to try to get away, though, because I know he's right. "Practically weak as a kitten."

Suddenly, I feel his mouth beside my neck, and I want so badly to jump away, but my body doesn't respond to my fight-or-flight response. "I could do anything I wanted to you." My breath hitches as he comes up behind me, bent over at his waist. He must know what his proximity is doing to me: _my whole body is trembling_.

"Hopefully you still have some game left in you, for me and your fan." My body flinches away from his hand on my shoulder. "Wouldn't want him to be disappointed."

Then, a painfully loud, familiar noise trills through the air, and I know someone has shot him. Fortunately, he doesn't crumple forward onto me. Over the slight ring in my ears, I hear him gasping for air, slamming into the floor.

Though relieved, I need to at least know my "fan's" name. Otherwise this little dance would be pointless, and I don't want nothing for just enduring his predatory circling.

"What...what..is their name?" I rasp out, finally gaining a hold on the ground. Determined, I get one foot flat onto the floor and try pushing myself up. "My fan: what's their name?"

He heaves as I finally manage to haul myself upright, standing slouched over his form. "Why...would I tell you?" he coughs, covering his mouth with his shaking hands.

"I know about...your kids," I say lowly, and he freezes in an instant, obviously surprised by this revelation. "I might not have you for...long, but I. Have. _Them_." Although I wouldn't actually harm children, he needn't know that.

He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat: it sounds suspiciously like a whine. "How?" he exhales, head rolling to the left. I growl, now having the upper hand, pressing the heel of my shoe to his shoulder. I finally see fear in his eyes.

"The... _name_!" I shout as loudly as I can with the drugs still in my system. He shakes his head again in denial, but I press and I press until he _screams_. " _The name_!"

" _Moriarty_!"

Satisfied, I pull my foot away, watching his face contort in a minute show of agony. I scan the flat slowly, moving clumsily to the window with the gunshot in it. Across the way, I see nothing, but I have a certain ex-army doctor in mind.

And then, the Met pull up, and I don't think I've ever been this relieved to see those blasted idiots.

* * *

Although I've already taken it off five times within as many minutes, I will not admit to actually being comforted by this ridiculous blanket. But, if I'm being honest, it's nice to have something protecting me from everything else.

"So," Lestrade drawls, and I can already tell this is a conversation I don't feel like having. "About John Watson..." I pull a face at the visible pity in his eyes and quickly avert my gaze.

"He's none of your concern, _Greg_ ," I grate out. "You weren't even supposed to _know_ his name." The way he sets his shoulders and steps back tells me he knows now is not the time to test my limits. Using his first name is always a sure way to alert him of the danger zone he's entering. "And don't you have a shooter to find?"

Lestrade looks a mix of amused and incredulous. "But we both know who it is, don't we?" Without thought, my eyes roam to where John stands by a Met car, idly wringing his hands. Even before Lestrade and Mycroft met each other, I always thought he was one of the more competent detectives.

"Let's try to avoid the court case." At the DI's disapproving look, I smirk. "I'm sure my brother dear can manage." Wrapping the shock blanket around myself with a certain finality, I start walking over to where the doctor stands.

"Why didn't you wait?"

John looks startled, almost as if he expected a different question. For a moment, it seems as if he's going to try to deny knowing what I'm even talking about, but then his face morphs into something...else. "He started... _touching_ you."

I frown. "You think I couldn't have handled myself?" I question, earning a flinch from my counterpart. "Do you know how many times that's happened before?" I don't want him to feel bad, but the words just keep spilling out. "Some people have actually _gone further_ -"

" _Don't_." Now is when I realize how close he looks to vomitting. My eyes focus on his trembling hands before zoning out to look at his face. "Don't make me feel guilty about this, Sherlock. He was about to do _that_ to you," he snarls. "His coffin will not, _could not_ , rest on my conscience."

I remain quiet, because that's obviously what he wants. He doesn't want an argument, and frankly, I don't want to argue with him. Instead, I turn to see Mycroft walking over to the DI with that ridiculous brolly of his hung on his arm. And of course, he saw what happened in the flat. He always _has_ had cameras.

"Fine," I acquiesce, turning on my heel. My hands find their way to my pockets as I stand still with bated breath, waiting for...something able to mend my mistake. Once I realize that something could be _me_ , I pivot to look at his face. "Dinner?"

His face softens slightly. Then he smiles. "Starving."

* * *

"Too bad the game had to end prematurely."

John glances up at me with disbelief written all over his face. "He almost-," he stops himself, taking a deep breath. "You wanted " _The Game_ " to continue just to stimulate your brain?" He shakes his head with a mirthless laugh. It sounds broken and...sad.

"My body is only transport," I recite, catching the melancholy in his eyes before he blinks it away. "I told you just that at dinner." He smiles slightly at this, seemingly pleased at the shift in subject.

"Please, can we just forget that happened," he huffs goodnaturedly, taking a bite of his order of risotto. "That part is definitely not going on the blog. Can't have my army mates knowing 'Three Continents Watson' got rejected," he jokes.

"Three Continents Watson?" I echo, a whisper lost in my glass of white wine. He doesn't seem to hear, so I instead compose myself and say louder,"Please refrain from overly romanticising things."

He chuckles, genuinely and happily and lightly. I haven't known him long, but I would describe his laugh as easy. Not in the sense that it's easy to _make_ him laugh, but it's easy to _listen_ to. Easy on the ears, but heavy on the heart. _My heart, at least._

 _God, now I sound like a poetic sap._

"You might not like the first entry, then," the doctor smiles, popping another bite into his mouth. "Actually, you know what? Just don't read any of the blog entries." With a grin, he continues,"They're cheesy and cliché and romantic and the writing is, ha, _God awful._ "

A smile blooms on my face, and I find that it's genuine, almost startlingly so. "I'm sure it's not that bad." And I mean it. With every fiber of my being, I actually think that whatever _corny_ , _terrible_ post he writes will always be amazing. He could type out a schmaltzy haiku about me, and I would feel _ecstatic_.

"You're just sparing my feelings," he replies, and I can't help but snort.

"John," I say, my tone almost scolding. "Trust me when I say I don't spare anyone's feelings." Although the statement holds true in this moment, I have a suspicion that I will quickly start sparing John's feelings.

He laughs. "Oh, I don't doubt it." For some reason, his admittance makes me feel... _guilty_ ; _terrible_. I know what type of person I am, but when John brings it to my attention, I feel a bit.. _.not good_.

Instead of burdening the happy-go-lucky, caring, glorious saint beside me, I smile in a way that I hope reaches my eyes. "Oh, shove it and eat your noodles," I say, then he just laughs and does exactly that.

* * *

This is _dreadful_. _Worse_ than dreadful.

John Watson has been living with me for little more than a week, but he's already managed to make a home in my heart, fill my mind with his presence. His God awful jumpers and amazing tea and witty humor and care for my health and love for Gladstone: _damn it all._

On Sunday, he made me scrambled eggs for breakfast. Then he looked at me like I was the best thing in the world, and I'm sure I almost had another panic attack. Then Thursday afternoon came around and he spewed superlatives at me like he was paid to, and I was surprised when I remembered he wasn't.

John Watson isn't paid to like me. He's not paid to be nice to me, to compliment me, to care for me. He does all that on his free will, and that's what hurts the most.

 _I can never shake him now._

* * *

 **A/N: So...how long has it been? I don't know, but hopefully you guys haven't lost interest in this. I know I haven't, even though my lack of updates would say otherwise. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and I look forward to any form of feedback available.**


	14. Predestination

**A/N: It's definitely been awhile, and this definitely isn't my best piece of work. I'm satisfied, though, and I hope you all are as well.**

* * *

It figures that Mycroft decides to visit when I'm not even dressed.

I roll over to see his scrunched up face, shielding my eyes from the light singling out across the room. He heaves a sigh, a burdened sound that carries down to my bed and seems to settle around my ears. With a small yawn, I stretch into an upright position, brushing Gladstone slightly with my curled toes.

"Come to have some tea time, did you?" I breathe, rubbing my tongue over my teeth and grimacing at the feel of them. Glads shifts to place his brick-head on my thigh.

"Most definitely," he says, rising from the foot of my bed with his usual haughty air. He swings his brolly, gesturing to the door.

I frown. "And I suppose it's mere coincidence that Sherlock is out of the flat?" He makes a very distasteful expression, glancing away from me to look out the window.

"If that is what it would seem, then obviously not," he replies curtly, his lips curling in a smirk that looks more pinched than usual. He's quiet for a moment, still until he straightens his tie. "Do you take sugar in your tea?"

I can't help but scoff. "Stop with the idle talk, Mycroft." Sounds like Sherlock's rubbing off on me. Maybe the similarity is apparent to Gladstone, too.

Mycroft cocks his head. The gesture combined with his pointy nose makes me think of a bird. "No need to be so hostile, my dear soldier. Isn't small talk what people do?" He folds his hands over his umbrella handle, almost like how those villains who kidnapped the main character's soulmate stroked their cats.

I scrub a hand along my neck, pulling the duvet tighter around my body. Gladstone makes a small noise of protest. "At least let a man put on his britches," I mumble with an overexaggerated huff. He simply nods his head and exits the room, disappointing considering Sherlock would have at least mumbled something back along the lines of,"Modesty isn't more important than murder."

I sigh, smoothing my fingers over the spiky patches behind Gladstone's ears. "Come on, up an at 'em, Glads."

* * *

I take a sip from my teacup, wondering just why Mycroft couldn't have used regular mugs.

"Perfect as always," I comment offhandedly, glancing at his perfectly trimmed hair and nails. His excessive personal grooming really doesn't surprise me anymore.

"Who's instigating the small talk now, good doctor?" he simpers, taking a dainty sip from his china. I frown at him over my cup, making extra sure to communicate to him that he's an utter bastard. Gladstone's face frowns too, laid over top of my socked feet. Mycroft simply straightens his tie. "But I digress." Another gulp.

"How would you murder me?" he says softly, mouth dragging over the edge of his mug. I slowly lower my dish and force my trap shut. "Hypothetically," he adds with a polite smile, setting his dish on the arm of his(Sherlock's) chair.

"Uhm..." _Is this some sort of test? What, is he looking for specifics? Is something logical a better choice? Or is an authentic answer applicable? I've thought about killing him before_ , Brain-Sherlock chimes. I quickly wave him away, trying to bypass Mycroft's cold stare.

"...uhm, illegally?" I say lamely. "Brutally? Slowly?" He actually has the gall to laugh at my floundering, but it isn't very surprising considering he is the actual British Government. "What other adjectives should I use?" His chuckle fades away until his face does this sort of shift that I can only compare to a lightbulb dimming.

"Funny," he acquiesces softly, sounding genuine for a moment, except his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. He rises from his(Sherlock's) chair, hands coming to clasp together behind his back. "Would you like to hear how I would kill you?"

My scalp tingles, the feeling then ghosting over my fingers and trickling down my spine. "Sure," I agree wholeheartedly, folding my hands in my lap, heart rate already elevated at the promise of danger in his tone.

"I wouldn't," he says simply, and I let a slightly disappointed breath rattle out of me. Glancing over, eyebrows raised in a silent inquiry, he scans my face. "Anyone interesting to my brother is doubly interesting to me." He bumps his umbrella against the desk as he leans it on its surface, letting a stray paper, surprisingly, feather onto the floor, landing softly beneath Sherlock's chair.

"I have reasons to be suspicious of anything my brother likes." He turns back around to face me. "His relationships with what he enjoys tend to be fairly... _unhealthy_ ," he says lowly, skimming his fingers once again down his neck tie. Although his implications are subtle, they are incredibly tangible. "But you, Dr. Watson..."

I lean forward expectantly, cautiously inspecting his hawk eyes. "You are special. You make him strive to be better, to listen, to eat and sleep and laugh, to like healthily, with a devotion." He hums to himself, almost as if he's stumbled upon a sudden revelation. "He trusts you. You must realize he has close to none he can trust?"

His eyes narrow. "Your ties to him may not always remain valid, however. Minds change, hearts change, and thoughts and actions shift accordingly." He circles my chair, reminding me vaguely of a shark. "My temperament quadruply so. Merely remember that news figureheads have their place in my arsenal. The power to efface such trivial matters as human death is far within my influence."

"Which figureheads?" I ask slowly, pressing my back farther into the cushion. He frowns, pulling his arms away and grabbing his umbrella from where it's slanted against the table. Clearing his throat, he swivels and starts, a little bit too quickly, for the window.

"Pardon," he whispers. "How presumptuous of me. Never did I intend for this," he turns around again, leaning a little too heavily on his umbrella. "Even I am susceptible to the dangerous disadvantage called ' _caring_ '. All I wish for is the best for my baby brother." He adjusts his suit, re-folding his sleeve cuffs and tightening his tie.

"But why me?" I breathe. "Why of all people does he trust me?" Mycroft tilts his head at me, then slowly returns his gaze out the window with an omniscient pull of lips. With steady steps, he treads to the door of the flat.

"The same reason I trust Gregory," he replies. He sighs again, and somehow it seems like he's done that too much today. "Trust in my judgement. I have dealt with Sherlock all my life. He will not make the first move." Mycroft slowly lays his hand over the door knob. "He will wait and wait until he realizes you don't know what he's been waiting for, that you haven't even known he's been waiting at all. That is frankly the ultimate catch 22 with the predestination of life: a prerequisite requirement of finding and confronting one's soul mate is needed to every attain that predestination."

"I'm not a psychic, Mycroft," I bite out. "You can't just have a whole cryptic spiel and _expect_ me to know what it means." The Government's eyes light up with something that seems a lot like aggravation, which is something I haven't seen on him often.

"If my words seem to hold any merit in your eyes, then you will figure it out on your own." He smooths the wrinkles of his suit vigorously, picking at lint that doesn't seem to be there. "Sherlock needn't anyone else letting him down."

The slamming door could never compare to the sting of his words.

* * *

"I'm certain you know I don't ask this lightly," Sherlock says,"but is everything functioning correctly? You pigment has paled considerably, and your hands are clammy," he points out with a flourish, pulling his latex gloves off and laying them beside his microscope.

I laugh because that's all I know how to do. "Sorry, just zoned out a bit." Pulling my body up straighter, I close the open laptop on my lap and place it on my side table.

"If two hours, 45 minutes, and 32 seconds is 'a bit' to you, then yes," he smiles at my weazy intake of breath,"you just zoned out a bit." He slowly makes his way out of the kitchen to our desk, practically clawing his way through the scatter of papers that have remained in that exact spot since I moved in no more than eight months ago.

I crack my neck and swivel to look out the window, realizing just how dark it's gotten before I extend my legs and pull myself out of my chair. _Maybe doing something productive can help me_.

"Ahh, here it is," I hear beyond the russle of my overcoat. Sherlock erratically waves a set of papers in front of his eyes as he slinks to the door, pulling on his Belstaff from its place amongst our coat rack. "Morgue. Back in an hour."

Before I feel I can even utter a word of protest, his steps sound in the hall with the echo of the door fresh in my ears. Sighing, I manage to settle myself once again in my chair. With a lack of purpose, I simply stare at a point far ahead of me in the flat; the headphones on the bison skull; a red pot handle hanging by a pin on the wall; Skully decorated with washable paints from an experiment.

 _W.S.S.H._

Scratched in Sherlock's jagged writing on a sheet of worn paper, I recognize the shapes of music notes on it tucked underneath his chair. Curious, I lean forward, practically eating my knees in my attempt to grasp it. I finally reach it and shift to reaffirm my position, recalling this as the sheet Sherlock's brother bumped onto the floor. Marks are bled into the dips and extensions of the sheet, filling the emptiness with constant words.

* _too slow_

 _-not jagged enough (Mycroft is being a prick)_  
 _*why isn't this working?!_

 _sorrow, anger, loneliness, capitulation, vulnerability, hope, love, style, normal?!_  
 _(humans are strange creatures)_

My eyes quickly dart away from the mass of pen, trailing up to find the title interwoven in an illegible scrawl of phrases.

" _William_ "

Everything stills. For a moment, even my breath ceases, and somehow it amazes me that no one has paused my world.

Stars are exploding, coalescing with the night and tumbling and throwing me off and I need to stop for a minute. I want to smack myself; I need to think.

With trembling hands, my fingers fold the edges of the paper inwards. Heavy, my breath ghosts over its curled corners.

Somehow, somewhere, I feel an indescribable pull at my gut, like this was supposed to happen. I immediately think the notion preposterous, but then I remember again that my entire life has been mapped out for me. Sherlock was predestined. _William_ , my brain supplies.

 _W.S.S.H._

 _W_.-William _S_.-(Sherlock?) _S_.-(Sherlock?) _H_.-Holmes

There's so much hope bleeding into my movements that I can't breathe again. I want to tamp the feeling down, but I haven't felt like this since I was a little boy waiting for his chance to imprint something upon the world. I have craved this moment, and its significance is indescribable, so unspeakably wonderful that for a moment, I almost forget myself.

 _Is Sherlock William? Did Mycroft knock the paper on purpose? Is this what he was talking about? Is this how my life was supposed to unfold?_

 _Is Sherlock my soul mate?_

* * *

 **A/N: Once again, sorry for the very long wait time. I have been feeling incredibly unmotivated as of late, but I digress. I won't use that as my excuse, nor blame it on my excessive school work. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. If it isn't too unfounded of me, may I just say Many Happy Returns.**


	15. The Spider and the Addict

**A/N: Warning: this is a fairly short chapter, and basically a bridge to the next few chapters, so there isn't much action. I haven't updated anything on this site in a while, but, you know, baby steps.**

* * *

There is a familiar quality to the Diogenes Club. Subordination bleeds into all the old geasers' movements when they glance at me then nervously turn away when I smile. They are aware of the niche, of there place.

"Excuse me," I lilt, although this utterance is obviously seen as taboo. That's part of the fun. "A little bird told me a Mycroft Holmes resides here?" One old man genuinely looks as if he's about to pass out, but the whole thing quickly surpasses being mildly amusing when his neighbor almost has a heart attack.

"No one knows?" I smirk, glancing around the posh little club. It is rather anything but a club, in actuality. "Do you believe I could simply show myself back?"

A pair of men in black push through the door to my left; how _predictable_ , how _boring_. The elder Holmes is better than this, so much _better_ than this. They link my arms on both sides and lead me farther into the nest of silent politicians and kiss-arse's who have usurped their way to power.

I spot Mycroft before we three men in black enter his office. He looks gravely pale: I smile.

I turn to the guard on my right. My knee presses playfully into his groin. "Is that a Browning Hi-Power Mark 1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" He doesn't laugh, which is incredibly valiant and oh so stoic, but also vanilla: _I prefer strawberry_.

"Would you be so kind as to take a seat?" His voice sounds pinched. I bow a bit before the chair screeches against the hardwood.

"Ever the polite brother, acting as if I'm actually _civilized_ ," I huff with a nagging, offended air. "As if I'm a _normal_ man," I scoff, head lulling against the fancy chair cushion that matches the tapestries.

The elder Holmes brother's eyes train on me. "It has always been clear to me that you are anything but a man," he says carefully, as if any sudden movement will cause my violence to surface; _clever boy._ "You are a snake, a rat, a spider: everything a man _is not and should never be_."

"Oh, Johann Sebastian Bach," I sigh lavishly,"enough with the poetic monologues. I rather hate trite cliches." My legs cross as Mycroft shifts in his chair, stiffly sipping his tea. I smirk again.

"Why are you here?" he bites out, still somehow retaining his political temperament, though I can feel the glorious fear in his eyes.

I guffaw, hands falling away from the arms of my chair. "How very plain of you, my darling. And you were doing so well, too." The guards' heat presses closer as they lock around my chair.

He frowns, a thin, automatic thing that ages his face; _very unbecoming_. "It's been made clear to me that you want something," he says obviously.

"I _always_ want something," I growl, leaning cautiously forward with the agents breathing down my back. "God, even the great Mycroft Holmes is as boring as my hairdresser's conversation starters." My back pushes into the chair again.

He rises and circles the desk to lean against it in front of my chair. Intimidation tactic, psychology tactic, an insulting try at a trick: _he must think I'm stupid_. "' _What_ ' is the priliminary, and ' _why_ ' is the secondary."

My eyes trail over the books and cling to anything that vaguely hints to the existence of the great Sherlock Holmes in his office. "What of your brother?" Mycroft's face contorts considerably before he schools his expression. "I hear he's quite clever: do you think we could have a playdate sometime?"

He remains astoundingly quiet for all his talk. "Just something simple," I wave dismissively. I peer up at him from under my lashes. "You know, maybe at our local _swimming pool_."

"What is it you want with my brother?" he says with a tremulous note to his voice. This is what happens when people try to act high and mighty; you know when they feel exposed.

"A game." My shoulders bunch up in a shrug, but my lips pull into a grin. "He can provide the satisfaction to me that ordinary people can't."

The elder Holmes gestures for the guards to restrain me. I let them and smile politely once more. "I cannot afford an introduction between the spider and the addict. My brother has surpassed the likes of you in every way."

"Oh, but he hasn't, my dear." My teeth show in a sneer. "Down to the core, in his bones, in that lovely brain of his, we are one and the same. _His_ basic function is _my_ basic function."

Mycroft slips into another bout of silence before he starts for his desk. "Show this gentleman out," he calls to the guards. "Farewell, Mr. Moriarty. I apologize that I couldn't be of assistance."

* * *

 **A/N: Writing from Moriarty's POV was both interesting and frustrating. If was at first difficult for me to get into the right mindset, for the first person point-of-view especially. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter and that the switch in POV was refreshing. Probably won't happen in a while unless people thoroughly enjoy it.**


	16. Not What It Seems

**A/N: Excuse my absence, even though I really have no excuse. Anyways, I think I'll be able to update semi-regularly again. Hope this chapter doesn't seem too rushed or anything.**

* * *

 _Uh, milk. We need milk._

"I'll get some." _Must've said that out loud_.

My brain feels like dull mush after the onslaught of snowfall. I can still hear the feather light quality of that little boy's voice, the fear of that elderly woman strapped down in her car.

"Really?" I say, because his cooperation would be just _stellar_.

His smile is surprisingly non-shit-eating. "Really."

My throat feels pin-hole thin because of him, looking at me as if I'm something more. The audience on that surprisingly mundane show - _Jeremy Kyle_ , I correct - roars with unbridled enthusiasm, and Sherlock sits and stares until his eyes seem wry and turn back to the TV.

"Beans too, then?" I can't help but ask. His lips pull up in that quarter-smile and it's like that moment right before you fall, _like the boy we saved from death near hours before, terrifying and relieving and thrilling all at once, and -_

He, blessedly, interrupts my thoughts. "Beans and all."

I want to ask now. I've put it off for a week since I first had the inclination that he was my soulmate. I've been too scared. I want to ask about him. About me. About _us_ : I _really_ do.

I smile at him before I close the door.

* * *

I call Mike Stamford. Whenever I want to unwind, he's my go-to mate: Sherlock is far too overly analytical and uptight to bother with something so banal as drinking games and the drudgery of stressed out _normal folk._

I turn the corner to wave down a cab, but one doesn't come. Still too flustered to be frustrated, I high-tail it down the road along the shoulder, looking desperately for a ride somewhere. _Shouldn't it be easier to find someone who wants your money?_

 _Pressure, in my arms, in the form of fingertips_ \- bruising with their force. I struggle as I'm tipped into what smells like an alleyway, feeling a strong tingle against the sensitive inside flesh of my arm as it's pressed violently into the stone wall. _God, my head_ -

"Go to sleep," what sounds like a brutish man croons, and without conscious thought, my head bows against his shoulder, my last thought:

 _Sherlock_.

* * *

I open my eyes, but see only black. Throbbing, my shoulder and arms ache like I've been in the Afghan sun for far too long _and God, that's the one feeling I really don't miss_. Cotton-mouthed, heart beat languid and thick like syrup, I try to extend my hands - they move slow like molasses against distinguishable binds. I can't tell if the rush in my ears in my own blood or - _water jets_ , my brain supplies.

Onset of hyperventilation - _breathe, Watson, you have this: you have_ got _to have this, because to lose your shit right now would be unwise_. _What did Sholto tell you - breathe even, slowly at first_. My hands fumble at my front as I try to touch my surroundings. Nothing comes in contact with my fingers - there's a chair pressing into my back, though.

 _Music_ , I realize. _There's music_. I strain my ears, tilt my head to the distant noise, desperately muffle the breath caught in my throat coming in uneven puffs, because this is too similar to before and it feels like _dying, pellets of sand sticking to my bloody body like rice, filling the hole in my chest as Murray pulls the shrapnel - Christ, it's cold and biting like alcohol slithering down my throat -_

Footsteps, treading ethereally, as if they aren't there at all. They sound vaguely familiar. _Soft, like rain against asphalt._

Gray in my eyes, like fireworks, painful, _yanking_. My head jolts back with a resounding _thud_. Warmth pools at the spot of impact _like honey in my morning tea_ , dizzying and dazzling like the rush of too much air in your lungs all at once. I feel more than hear the steady string of laughter beside my ears, like the piercing sickle of Death himself: a recently wilted flower.

"A little birdie told me you're scared of the ocean?" the voice breathes, and oh, my God, _it's him, with Molly: the one that bumbled about like a dog with ears too long for his face and isn't this fan-_ fucking _-tastic -_ "I don't expect to scare you, no. But I know he does. Mr. - oh, well, _you know who_." Small hands cradle the soft hair at the nape of my neck and it leaves a cold and ominous phantom of feeling there.

More music blares, accompanying the muffled one of before, vibrating right around where I can only perceive the man to be. _The Bee Gees_. "Speak of the devil: he should be here soon," the accent, what I recognize to be Irish _like Murray's_ croons. The knot at the back of my head loosens, as does some of the fear in my stomach as jarring overhead lights invade my vision, _God bless_.

"Only a few more things. We need to get you ready," he whispers _and Jesus it sounds like velcro from semtex being layered around my middle and -_ "Just let it happen."

My head spins.

* * *

His eyes are what I see first.

They appear smug and elated, I suppose like any true hero when he catches the villain unawares. That is before he sees my eyes peek from behind curtains.

Then they are shocked momentarily into what seems like an abrupt stop, which I only find strange because it's _Sherlock_. His brain, moving as I would describe as faster than the speed of light, comes grinding to a halt all because of some impertinent thing like me.

"This sure is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" is whispered into my earpiece and given audacity through my voice, and those eyes of a color I yearn to see now look terrified, and betrayed, and my stomach churns with everything I couldn't dare to speak of right now.

He stalks around me with vague purpose, but his eyes wander down my body like they've missed something. Maybe he thinks he has: perhaps he thinks he's misconstrued me as a perfectly ordinary doctor. In reality, that's exactly what I am: just a doctor caught in the orbit of a brilliant man who has somehow taken a liking to me.

He looks petrified, though later he won't say a word of it, because that's what type of man he is. I've lived with him for less time than Mike Stamford or my mates in university, but he has never been one for words: says they're too flimsy and inadequate, that everything is left to interpretation. I see him now, looking like a man struggling to keep afloat, and he shant dare breathe a word of it after we've gotten out of this mess.

It's sad really, but I digress.

"What the hell?" His voice is chock full of raw surprise, smattered with apprehension, and it sends something stiff and cold as frozen wood curling through my chest. I realize this is a rare occasion in which he has cursed. "But I thought-" He stops, gun resting against his hip, bony and too thin, but not frail. _As though I've been looking._

"Do continue, my dear," I say, the words soot and ash in my mouth. His whole body seems to negatively shake with his head, handgun raising ever so slightly towards my upper torso.

He grimaces, guilt sprouting from my toes and billowing above me like a cloud of balloons. "Nevermind what I thought." His determination sends chills down my back, meeting with the warm germination of guilt in my belly. "I have one question- _why_?"

Moriarty whispers to me confidentially, playfully, as if he's a child excitedly playing telephone with his mates. "The same reason as anything else, I suppose," then,"for fun. Really, I mean it." My tongue feels swollen and restrictive in my mouth. "I like watching you dance, baby boy."

Sherlock startles when I shed my parka to reveal the explosives strapped around my midsection. "For that, I'll allow you one last parting dance with John Watson, as an adieu," I grumble, trying to bypass the fear layering in my gut. Sherlock doesn't look hurt now, but surprisingly fearful.

He rushes to me, clammy palms pressing both of my arms into my sides, like that game to make them raise on their own accord. " _Are you alright_?" he bites out, more impatient with fear than anger, quickly backing off to bellow to the upper gallery, "Who are you?"

The double doors at the far end of the pool break the quiet, and I can tell just by the tap of his shoes that it's Moriarty, come to torture us in person this time. "I gave you my number. Thought you might call," he sing-songs, somehow mirthful in the cascading overhead lights.

Sherlock appears stricken despite himself. "Jim from IT?" he breathes, in what sounds like a self-deprecating way, gun re-establishing its place outstretched from his chest.

He tsks, head tilted ever so slightly. A grin flourishes on his face. "Moriarty, actually. Hi."

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's been in the works for a very long time, and it wasn't until very recently that I was finally satisfied with the direction of the story.**


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